You creakily lever yourself to your feet, and sort of shamble and shuffle yourself into the bathroom.  What you see in the mirror is not in any way reassuring, but rather, disturbingly accurate given the way that you feel.

Through a miracle of autonomic nerve reflexes, you somehow manage to make it downstairs without a compound fracture or nascent concussion resulting from an sudden and unexpected head-to-handrail interface, to find yourself leaning against the counter in front of the coffeepot like a penitent at an altar after a long and arduous pilgrimage.

The damn thing has a timer. Why didn’t I set it up to brew, last NIGHT?!  Again.  Muttering arcane curses under your breath, you pitch some of Tully’s finest into the filter basket, 10 cups of Culligan’s from the glugger, and the pretty red light now promises some modicum of relief in about, oh, seven minutes.

The arthritic old lady in the checkout line fishing for eleven cents in her threadbare coin purse looks like a manic speed junky hopped up on crystal meth compared to how fast this freakin’ thing is brewing.  Ah, to hell with it.

You grab a clean(ish) cup and do the hot-swap with the carafe, letting the stygian goodness flow into your cup like a Druid priest collecting the blood of virgin coffee beans sacrificed on the pagan altar of your need.  You mutter your ritualistic mantra over the sacred beverage, something sounding vaguely like, “Nnhhh..coffeeeee…gimmee…need coffee…oww..oww..hothhothot.”  At the last minute your remember to put the carafe back under the spout, narrowly avoiding (another) counter-top hazmat spill.

You chew back half the cup before the pain receptors from your lips and tongue even hit your frazzled brain.  You don’t care.  Blisters heal.

Now, an hour and a half, and three cups later, you still feel like buzzard vomit.   Wife musta switched in some decaf.  Vicious, conniving shrew that she is.  You check the bag.  Nope.  Says, High Octane, right on the label.  Well, maybe two or three more cups’ll do the trick.

You tell yourself this, but you don’t really believe it.  Not deep down, down where the coffee goes.  You know that this is just one of those days, those days that leave you with nothing but a splitting headache, an aching back, and that one nerve in your eyelid twitching at random intervals.  You know the kind of day I’m talking about…

A day when even coffee isn’t enough.

We’ve got ceramic needles and glass pipettes machined to such microscopically exacting tolerances that they can suck strands of DNA out of an ovum, but we can’t seem to engineer a coffee carafe that doesn’t dribble coffee down the front of my cup and across the counter every time I try to pour myself a cup of joe.

My little Mr. Coffee Jr. is a champ at this.  I’m slow, meticulous, cautious and precise.  And yet, without fail, I need to pour my morning cup of Divine Nectar while hovering my mug over the sink, ’cause inevitably there will be a great splashing cascading gout of coffee down the front of the carafe due to the ingeniously designed pour spout, getting as much out of my cup as in.

Is there no quality control at the ol’ Mr. Coffee production facility?  Is there not some underpaid undocumented foreign resident worker-type paintstakingly testing the efficacy of each pour spout as it comes down the line, sploshing a little water into the container and then carefully pouring it back out in order to see if attains the correct hydrodynamic arc without breaking shape and form to collapse down the front of aforementioned container?  And when it does, does he pitch the offending item into the “REJECT” bin for smelting down into the next generation of Mr. Coffee Jr’s?

Clearly not.  Because some CFO or “consultant” did a cost analysis, and figured that little Enrique’s meager wage could be more readily folded into executive stock options than in holding the line against an invasion of pourly (get it? Pourly!? HAHA!)  minted glassware.  And so Enrique ends up to making chalupas and washing dishes at the local Carlos O’Kelly’s, while I must watch the better part of half of my carefully brewed Columbian Supremo swirl clockwise down the drain.

Bastards!

Ya know, the single greatest force multiplier for our military forces would be a vicious and unstoppable computer virus that utter destroys PowerPoint on all DOD computers.

You would not BELIEVE how many HOURS we spend “tweaking” the same damn brief, in order to make sure it says exactly what the General will want to here.  In the right font.  In the right SIZE font.  With approved graphics.  And lots of imagery…pertinent or not. Errrgh. Painful.

{{pops smoke to cover his withdrawl.  Retrogrades to his bunker where he fires up some instant Folgers mixed with “Cocoa Beverage Powder, Fortified.}}

Now you know why they call it a “fortified position.”  BWAHAHAHA.  I slay me.

By the same token, when some little demon-spawn is shrieking her ever-lovin’ head off and petulantly flinging french fries and nugget bits in the middle of McDonalds while I am trying ever-so-patiently to enjoy my sausage, egg, and cheese McGriddle, is it the fault of the two-year old progeny of Satan, or the fault of the mom for not slapping the little crumbsnatcher silly with the flat of her sandle until she JUST SHUTS UP!!  After all, little kids cry, they shriek, they have violent, low-bloodsugar meltdowns.  It’s a natural act.  However, my wanting to commit some violent and potentially unnatural act on the deliberately oblivious mom who lets it continue for the better part of 20 minutes without a) brutalizing the child into submission, or b) taking the little festering snot nodule home and leaving the rest of us in peace, is, I think, also a natural reaction.

-  I will never be a “good” environmentalist, because I believe that the environment should be protected FOR people, not FROM people.  The whole “no road, no trails” BS is not only folly, but a betrayal of the stewardship of these lands by our fine Federal government.  They are called PUBLIC lands for a reason.

 - Durbin, Pelosi, Boxer.  Three of the biggest reasons I will forever resist progressivism with every fiber of my being, with ever ounce of fortitude and wherewithal I possess, to the bitter end of my last, gasping breath.

- I think that if Martin Luther King could see the condition of the Black Communities of today, he might almost want a return to the 50’s.  Have we moved forwards, or backwards?  According to MLK, who is responsible for the “plight” of the black man?  The black man, or the white man?  According to MLK, who is responsible for an individual’s station, status, and welfare?  Who has the greatest, if not the sole responsibility for improving or changing that condition?  Let me give you a hint:  Black, white, man or woman, indian, immigrant, or citizen, the responsibility rests WITH YOU!  Stop blaming everyone but yourself for your problems.

- I’ve realized that I can be somewhat of an a**hole at times.  I’ve also realized that I’m okay with that.

- You know, that quaint trend of using asterisks to softcoat swear words?  Kinda silly.  When someone reads the sentence, their brain drops the asterisks and they read the word to themselves in all its profane glory.  You might as well have yelled it in their ear.  If you’re going to use the word, use the word.  Otherwise don’t.  Unless you’re quoting someone.  Then fudge out the WHOLE world, not just a few crucial vowels or consonants.

- This country is in a tailspin, not because of the Democrats or Republicans, but because of the Democrats AND Republicans.  Because we have become so polarized, and so beholden to special interests and minority shills that we are tearing ourselves apart from the inside out.  Because their are powerful people in Congress who will propose or oppose something not because it is right, but merely because its the opposite of what the opposing party wants. We are doing the islamicists job for them.

- You know what I hate?  Worse than black licorice, or brussel sprouts? (Okay, maybe not worse than brussel sprouts.)  But you know what just chafes me worse than wearing brand new Levis with no underwear?  Shtank.  What is “shtank,” you ask?  Shtank is that smell when you sit down in the bathroom stall next to a guy who’s clearly got some sort of medical condition.  When some dude who KNOWS he shouldn’t each shellfish and a dairy-rich alfredo sauce was in the stall just before you, and you walk in thinking you’re gonna get a few choice moments aways from phone and email, only to be assaulted with some putrid anal effluvium the likes of which would make Shrek’s nose hairs curl.  Shtank is that odor that molecularly bonds with oxygen molecules so that when you walk into the office bathroom after the guy who’s just started his new “high-fiber” regimen, and you quite literally can’t breathe.  Hate that.  A lot.

- On a more positive note, I’ve discovered the joys of Dunkin Donuts coffee.  I know, I know,  I said I was going to quit drinking coffee (chortle, guffaw).  Yeah. Right.  I lied.  That will never happen.  Face it – I’m addicted for life.  But I digress.   I’ve heard from several sources who’d sooner clean car parts with Starbucks coffee than drink it, that DD coffee is much better.  I’ve come to agree.  It’s sweet, without being frou-frou.  Smooth, not bitter.  Cleans up real nice with a little flavored creamer, or just black.  It’s a good, solid, all around coffee that doesn’t cost an armandaleg per pound.  Highly recommended.

- We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog-surfing.

Part of my high-speed new diet is to not eat anything with high-fructose corn syrup, or anything with sugar in the first five ingredients.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to find stuff without high-fructose corn syrup?  It’s like walking into a dollar store and trying to find something not “Made in China.”  The stuff is everywhere!  It’s in Ketchup, for heaven’s sake!  Did you know spaghetti sauce has sugar in it?  Arrgh!

One of the hardest parts is cutting out alcohol and caffeine.  Alcohol interferes with the proper metabolization of food, as well as being a big bunch of empty carbs and calories.  Caffeine tends to hammer your blood sugar, and already being borderline hypoglycemic, I find that drinking very much coffee causes me to eat extra snacks/food to counteract the jitters.  Soooo..that’s gotta go, too.

I’m gonna be one serious caffeine withdrawlin’ mofo here for a week or so.  Best stay clear, as I suspect I’m gonna be a tad bitchy.

Yeah, I know.  I am a man of deep contradictions.  That’s why you love me.

So yesterday I decide to try one of Coffee-Mate’s “Latte Creations.”  Mocha, if you must know.

Yeah, totally gay.  So sue me.

On the back it promises that it “easily transforms your coffee into a delicious, frothy latte.”  Frothy?  Yeah, right.  Blow me.  How am I supposed to get a “frothy” concoction out of a few teaspoons of high-fructose corn syrup and dried milk essence?

Well, damned if the thing didn’t froth up like some fine, barista-steamed puree!  I must assume that it’s somehow infused with an effervescent compount of some dubious and indeterminate origin, what allows an otherwise unassuming beverage to assume such a delightfully piquant beret of bubbly faux foam.

“Latte Creations” are still gay as as hell, and next thing I know I’ll likely be knitting myself some macrame’ shorts or making spinach dip in a bread bowl.  But they’re also really rather quite tasty. 

And frothy. Don’t forget frothy.