Mr. Wrong: Coffee Talk

MR. WRONG!Yeah, maybe I’m a little late to the party on this one, but whatever: Look, I do not have to be quiet at the coffee shop. It is a place where they have coffee and loitering is tolerated or perhaps even encouraged and people come in and set up at a table with their laptop and every time I come in to one of these joints it’s totally fucking quiet. There’s no OBEY BE QUIET sign, but everybody’s quiet because they are all up in their laptop computers, interfacing with the goddamn Machine Intelligence that is gonna take over any fucking minute now and not with like, Humans. However and shit, it is not the fucking Library. You want to go someplace to work where there’s free Internet without wires, go to the fucking bibliothèque, where they have people paid to keep errbody quiet in there because it’s where the Books live and they are old and easily disturbed by loud talking, like one is legally able to do in a Coffee Shop, over a goddamn fucking cuppa coffee, OK? Yeah, it’s in the Constitution.

You fucking look at me over the top of your laptop all you want, and make that little move where you’re like “hmm, I better close my laptop a li’l bit so this asshole can see he is Disturbing me and I might have to go to another table,” and I will raise my coffee cup up and fucking cheers you like I have No Fucking Idea why you are eye-fucking me so hard and I will just continue to look at you. Because I want to make you talk, motherfucker. Mwahaa! Cheers! Coffee! Talk to me so then we can have a Conversation about who is Breaking the fucking Law or whatever because they decided to go to a coffee shop with a fucking NEWSPAPER and talk about Current Events and shit or with a LAPTOP and retreat into the Cone of iPod. We can talk over some delicious coffee! C’mon, close that laptop, let’s have, like, a General Foods International Coffee Moment, only without drinking that shit because its basically like the coffee version of TANG, the shit they made the Astronbauts drink before they discovered Nutrition.

And another thing, just because you brought your laptop as your date to the coffee shop doesn’t mean you get to hog a whole table, OK? If I come in with a human companion and there’s no suitable place for us to lay our cups, we’re sitting with you at “your” fucking table, OK, lapster? Yeah, that’s how they do in Europe or something, they share tables and get all jacked up on coffee and orange juice and discuss shit like the fucking Postage, right? Stamps? “Franking” or whatever? When’s the last time you mailed a letter?

Still, I gotta mail something (usually a Parking Fine, because I refuse to let those fuckers steal another $3.95 or whatever outta my Virtual Wallet just to make the transaction over the Internet) and it’s like wait, how much is a stamp? $3 cents? 47 cents? Can’t we just get it up to 50 or a buck? I mean, you can send a piece of paper thousands of miles for under a dollar, it’s a deal if it’s 50 cents instead of 49 or whatever’s a fucking stamp is, right? See? Why you wanna stare at that lappie when you can engage in Stimulating Discourse such as this, eh? If you really wanted to work you would work in your house or your job, if you have one. I mean work at what you want to do, like you’re trying to do in this coffee shop, not your job, you know? I mean, no offense to your job but you know you can do that shit in like three days elapsed time, right? Yeah!

Or hey, have you heard this one? We’re “pulling out of the Global Recession,” har! Apparently the Global Recession has Recessed in Japan or something, and since they are a day ahead of us, as in U.S. that means it’s sunny days ahead, har! I hope my week of Furlough helped my job Win the Recession, right? Man, they’re all like “well the Underemployment is now Nine Point Five Percent, and that’s good because we thought it was going to be Nine Point Seven Percent, blah blah…” C’mon, let’s call it Ten Fucking Percent, and just look around in this coffee shop, you know? Right here, man, Coffee Achievers. Remember that shit, “Coffee Achievers?” Man, David Bowie is an Luxus Whore, eh? See, we’re doing some what, Dialogue or something, learning from each other or something? No? C’mon, how about this one, man: “Death Panels.” Where’d that fucking come from, huh? Oh, her? The fucking Quitter? Well, she can quit on that too if she wants, but look, I basically have no problem calling ’em Death Panels if that’s what They wanna call ’em, as long as we can Talk about it before I get too feebed-out to sign anything, umkay? My signature is spidery enough, but if it looks like I’m trying to copy the line on the Heart Monitor, take the fucking pen away from me, OK? Seriously, if I didn’t sign some shit that says DO NOT RESCUE-CESSITATE or whatever, then you need to hook my ass up to the next thing smokin’ you feel? I’m not Quitting! I’m hangin’ on, man! I saw something when I went down the Tunnel of Light! Keep my shit plugged in! Intravenous me some coffee!

Previously: Cash for Clunker

Mr. Wrong appears every three weeks or so in the Baltimore City Paper, which is not frequently enough, hence he is here. He is also here.