Why I Do Not Belong In Coffee Shops

This friend calls me up from a coffee shop. He tells me he is thinking of killing a professor. I run right over to try and talk him into doing it.

Since I feel obligated to buy something, I buy an iced coffee. I take one sip and realize iced coffee is just black coffee with ice. I find some Sweet-N-Low. I put it in, but that is not good enough. I go looking for cream. I cannot find any. I am already as high as a kite from the black coffee.

But there is this metal pot sitting on this guy's table. I try my best not to stare at this guy. He looks like some child molester I have seen in some movie. He stares at every women and caresses his computer mouse as he stares. (I just stare. I do not have a computer mouse.) He has headphones on, so I ask him if he is done with his metal pot. He affirms but has a strange look on his face. I take the pot. I tilt the pot, but cream does not come out. It is tea, honey, an opiate, but definitely not cream.

I quickly return the pot. I drink my black coffee over ice, try not to stare at the child molester, try not to voice my bad thoughts about the waitresses, and try to do work.

The moral of the story is caffeine is not good for you.