Anyway, here’s an item-by-item counterpoint:

Put down the cell phone if you’re ready to order.

Well, no shit, Dick Tracy. Everyone knows that (everyone reading your article, at least), and even if they don’t, they have no obligation to offer the cashier more than their order. From the article:

I think it helps if the customer acknowledges the worker right off the bat, like asking, “How are you?” rather than just barking the order and not making eye contact,” Renae says. “A little skotche of humanity.”

“A skotche of humanity.” Just say that to yourself. “A skotche.” You are a cashier. Your job is to take my order, barked or otherwise. If I can do that and operate a phone at the same time, more power to me. Something that also bothers me, is this idea that, as a customer, I have to acknowledge the cashier “right off the bat” with some form of banal pleasantry. Let me get this straight, you work part time for an hourly wage that is above minimum, you get insurance, and, on top of that, you want tips, and I’m the one that is supposed to initiate conversation?  Fuck that. I don’t want to pull a Mel Gibson, but shouldn’t you also blow me?

Realize that menus aren’t universal or open to interpretation.

“Take a minute to evaluate where you are when you step through the doors,” begins this idiotic Pro-Tip®. Turns out these baristas can’t handle it if you order a frappuccino and all they offer is a mochaccino, even if it’s exactly the same concept. Also, know your sizes. Don’t be up in my coffee shop ordering some Venti® Frappuccino® bullshit when all we gots is Mochaccinos® and, it’s Large® here, not Venti®. You know where the only place I get size bullshit is? Starbucks. I don’t go to a different coffee shop and order anything other than standard sizes (small, medium, large). Only at Starbucks do I get obnoxiously corrected: Smalls are Tall, Mediums become Grande, and larges of course are Venti. The best thing is that this information is cheerfully relayed to me in the same fashion as an under-the-breath “fuck you”, after I order. They know what I mean, they just have to correct me. It’s probably corporate policy.

Don’t treat the shop as your personal space.

Actually, I don’t need to quote anything from the article for this. I’m just going to give you a big Pro-Tip®: Treat the shop as your personal space. That’s exactly why they have upholstered couches and free wi-fi. They want you to stay because the longer you stay, the more likely you are to buy more of their shit. That’s their whole plan, so hang out, charge your laptop, surf the interGoogles®. See if they kick your ass out. Starbucks subsidizes these expenses through their overpriced food items, coffee mugs, and shit heel Kenny-G/Alanis Morissette “That’s What I Call Easy Listening” CDs. It pisses their cashiers off, because if you’re on the interGoogles® updating your FaceSpace® twattles, you’re not tipping them. Also, their advice uses the phrase “follow protocol” at. a. fucking. coffee. shop. Follow protocol and fuck right off.

Tip when it’s necessary, and sometimes even when it’s not.

Don’t tip when it’s not necessary. It defeats the purpose of tipping.

And check out this gem: “It takes a village to get you that cup of coffee.” Woah, shit. I had no idea. They’re right, though. It takes a village of underpaid, underfed child laborers to get you that cup of coffee. I kid, but I kid with hate. It also takes a village to get you that Arch Deluxe® and fries too, but I guess that’s beside the point. Other things that take a village to bring to you include your mail, your cable TV, and your groceries, so get to tithing motherfucker. I guess those things aren’t delivered by a chipper, acne-free face with a plastic smile so fuck them, right?

Be patient.

It takes time to concoct your beverage. It’s not just a cup of coffee with some cream on top of it. That’s some handcrafted bullshit right there. It’s not like corporate doesn’t have that shit on lock down. No way! It takes years to learn how to properly concoct these caffeinated libations. The apprenticeship program alone takes upwards of four hours a day for nearly a week of training just to work yourself up to ice mochas. So you’re going to want to be patient. I know to the untrained eye it just looks like they’re pouring liquid from one container into another container, blending that liquid, and transferring it to another container, but really there’s a lot going on behind the scenes that you’re not seeing.

Side note:

Every time I end up ordering something at a coffee shop, I’m reminded of this:

Seriously, fuck The New Yorker. Unless this is about that whole Haiti thing.

I have no idea what it means. Do they jump really high now in football? Is it about steroids? I thought that was a baseball thing.

No wait, I get it now. It’s about the health care legislation. Like the flying football player is all about the progressive changes the administration is wanting, and the curmudgeon on the ground is like those right wingers that prefer the old way of doing things. You know, where the maximum is done to punish the needy and the minimum is done to curtail the excesses of the upper-crust plutocracy that controls 95% of the nations wealth. Oh wait, that can’t be it — the NFL has private insurance.

Seriously, I’ll give anyone a coupon good for one free back rub* if they can explain to me why this is funny. I really want to know (mainly because if you tell me, it’s likely that you find this cartoon in some way amusing, and I can punch you in the back of the head).

*By “back rub” I mean handjob, and by “free” I mean $20.

AKA Chad Sexington

Ol’ Brad is wanted in Wichita, Kansas for felony theft. Although the wanted poster doesn’t say, and I’m no Columbo, I have a pretty good idea what he has stolen.

He has stolen my look.

You see that disheveled hair? That slack-jawed look? Those superfluously layered clothes? That’s all me.

I have spent the better part of a decade sleeping with wet hair, shaving intermittently and inaccurately, and perfecting my “Is that a beer?” look. To have all my work and artistry shamelessly grifted by this charlatan — this common poseur — nearly makes me want to throw my custom skull and dragon bong (which, btw, is awesome) against my fireplace mantle dedicated to the empty bottles of the various types of liquor I have drank.

You think I like funneling beer? Or waking up at noon? Or sitting through 8 hour DVD marathons of marginal television shows? Of course I don’t. However, I have committed to a unique and cutting edge style, and, because of my bold yet utterly fabulous choice, I must bear this cross of couture, and I must defend my unique style from any and all imitators — no matter how well they pull off a five o’clock shadow. 

I hope they catch Brad. I hope they catch him soon, before he further dilutes my brand, and I hope they throw the proverbial  book at him. I will be at every parole hearing to make sure that this nefarious swine serves every day of his sentence for what he’s done to me.

That is, as long as I remember to set my phone’s alarm clock and can borrow enough money for bus fare to Kansas, which I won’t be able to do.

Please Eat a Dick

I recently boughtThe Godfather collection on the Blu-ray Hi Definition HDDVD.com 2.0 what that also vacuums my living room floor while I’m passed out on the couch. I was so excited to buy it. Firstly, because it’s expensive and it only works on other expensive consumer electronics, and that sends a message to people I don’t know. That message is, “Hey, look at me. I like to buy expensive things. Love me.” Secondly, it’s a great film and I stress the word film. I love great films. I appreciate only great films. Why, I spend most my days at home enjoying fine cinema and showing how smart I am in appreciating them on various message boards on the internet. Fine films such as 300, The Dark Knight, and The Matrix all share a treasured place in my heart and in my film library, neatly tucked away with care and love on my vast shelves of only the finest cinema.

That’s why I was shocked at what I found when I finally got away to opening The Godfather collection, I dunno, like a week or two after I bought it. So here’s the thing. I bought a stupid $80 trilogy (of which, I really only want to watch only 2/3 of the movies*) on some over-hyped format with a stupid name and they can’t even get the internal disc holding doo-dad right. It’s four discs and, instead of maybe going that extra mile and doing a nice packaging job, they put the four disks on two ugly-ass blue trays that are connected at the spine through some type of cheap Chinese plastic voodoo. They work like two very thick plastic pages in a book. So the two plugs at one end of the spine — yeah, those broke off.

See that little blue thing on the spine? The thing holding the discs is supposed to have a pluggy thing that goes into it, but not so much.

So you open the package and what happens? First, the two trays flap around like some drunk hobo’s flaccid member when he’s exposing himself to you and your family. Then, the trays fall out. That doesn’t matter so much, because the center plugs that hold the discs don’t hold the discs so well, so when you open the package, two of the discs automatically fall out anyways. Why aren’t the discs each individually packaged in slimline cases like some TV shows on DVD? Because Sony and the publisher are cheap cocksuckers, that’s why.

And another thing, why is the packaging so cheap to begin with? So you spend all this money remastering with all these gigahoowsizts and pixels and whatnot what most snobby douchebags consider is the best movie ever made when they’re not talking about some dumb hipster movie that came out this year or the year before or is going to come out next year but will totally be the best movie ever made, but you can’t shell out a couple of bucks to design packaging that is clever or fitting with the tone and history of the films? Could it at least have been tasteful? It’s The Godfather but it’s packaged in some gaudy translucent blue pillbox looking piece of shit. I swear, Marlon Brando is probably in celebrity heaven recruiting a team of workers to use a forklift to spin him in his grave. His son is also probably spinning in his Styrofoam coffin about all the residual checks he won’t be getting.

So what’s a boy to do? I take that shit straight back to the hell hole I bought it at — Best Buy. The chick at the returns desk was really helpful. At least I think she was helpful. She had gum in her mouth and was like 16 years old and she talked like maybe this was her first job or she didn’t have good social skills or she was all hopped up on something. Either way, I got to exchange it. So I get back home and guess what? The new set has the same exact motherfucking problem. I was hopelessly disappointed and decided “Fuck it.” I tried to kill myself, but I ended up only having enough pills to make me loopy and fall asleep at 3 PM, so when I woke up in the middle of the night I decided again “Fuck it,” and rather than returning this set again to Best Buy — which is like going in to the dentist to get a cavity filled — I will keep it on my shelf. I’ll point out that I own it to all my visitors but I won’t let them touch it, under the cover that it’s very expensive and it’s condition is very dear to me and I don’t want their grubby hands leaving grease marks all over it. In reality, I won’t let them touch it because I’m afraid of being shamed.

*Actually I quite like Godfather III and not just because it’s popular to hate on it and most snobs really loathe it. Well, actually, that’s a big reason why I like it. But, also I think it’s pretty ok and Francis “Jack” Ford Coppola’s untalented alleged director of a daughter isn’t in it enough to completely ruin it.  Also, I think that’s the only real argument you could have against that movie. I’d still do her though.