Starbucks: A Dilemma

There are plenty of reasons to hate Starbucks and Howard Schultz and hate them I do. Aside from ruining the Supes, Schultz also contributed the eight-word coffee order to modern culture and turned coffee into a fashion statement, a ubiquitous accessory in the hands young Hollywood (after all, what better than caffeine to ease a coke hangover?) What happened to a straight cup o' joe, Howie?

"I'd smile, but I'm using all my energy to carry this giant cup"

I prided myself on successfully avoiding Starbucks entirely when I lived in Seattle, except to go into the original to purchase Pike Place Blend, only available at said location, for friends and family. Only available there until today that is. And there, folks, is the dilemma.

The famous, formerly unique, blend was rolled out at stores across the country today with great fanfare. The original, randier logo even adorns the cups. I ordered a cup with great enthusiasm, but later faced a question that has shaken me to my core; with the recent addition of Top Pot donuts (another Seattle favorite) to the menu, is Starbucks making irrelevant the few local touches it still possessed?

Sadly, I think the answer is yes. Part of the charm of the Pike Place location was being able to get something you couldn't at one of the thousands of other soul-sucking outposts. Now anyone can bop down to one of the four Starbucks on one's block and get a cup of PPB fresh-roasted that day in York, PA (as mine was today). To put this into perspective, it would be like Giordano's offering deep-dish pie in Charlotte, by way of Raleigh. There is something inherently wrong with that. And Top Pot? They serve their own coffee, why oh why would they get into bed with Schultz? I can only assume that Starbucks has a horse dong that is both gentle and satisfying at the same time, metaphorically speaking.

We live in an age where people want what is hip and trendy and famous, without having to leave their comfort zone for the experience. Guess what, nob goblins? An old-fashioned and a grande half-caf soy latte with whip from a strip mall in Flint, MI will never be as good as on the Market steps (even if the drink order makes me want to smack you). Until I can wrap my brain around why you, the collective, think otherwise, another piece of me will blacken and die.

Why You Suck

Today, you suck because you wear these:

Seriously. Are you going seal hunting any time soon? Is that long-planned Arctic expedition finally here? Is this the year you finally win the Iditarod?

No. You own these because "all the girls wear them." Fact: they don't. However, those with low self-esteem and the inability to choose their own footwear do.

Ah, yes. Nothing like Arctic boots and a mini skirt. Speaking of low self-esteem, this is the tragi-comedy of Jamie Lynn Spears in action

After doing some research, I found that Ugg is actually a brand name for a line of footwear, including those vomit-inducing fleece boots. After doing absolutely no research, I determined that Ugg has become a household name, like Kleenex and BubbaGump Shrimp. Why this horseshit remains popular requires more research than the NSF is capable of funding.

As if the boots themselves weren't bad enough (and they were soooo five years ago) some girls tuck their pants into them. I guess they do it because the celebrities are doing it (not a good reason), but they just end up looking like trailer-park hookers. Only without the acid-washed denim.

This picture's fantastic. These three cosmo girls are not only stepping together like they're in a Soviet parade, apparently two of them think they're somewhere above the 10th Parallel. The other one realizes they're actually in Southern California, although that girl is wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. Now, I could continue to bash the chosen styles of these three teenyboppers, but I'd probably end up sounding much gayer than I intended to when I started this piece.

Overall, I give Uggs two snaps and a NO WAY!!!

Why You Suck (2)

This week's edition of Why You Suck is brought to you by the retard in the cubicle four down from you. Let's call him...Bob.

Bob: HELLO!?!!?

Wife: Hi, it's me!

Bob: HI! HOW'S YOUR DAY GOING? MINE'S FINE. I HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO. BUT BEFORE I GET TO ANY OF IT, TELL ME EVERYTHING THAT'S HAPPENED TO YOU IN THE TWO HOURS SINCE I'VE SEEN YOU.

Wife: Well, ok...Do you wan't to talk about all the crap that can probably wait until eight hours from now when I see you again?

Bob: OF COURSE. WHY WOULDN'T WE TALK ABOUT THAT?

***Fifty-eight minutes later***

Bob: HOLD ON, DEAR, MY CELLPHONE IS RINGING. I'LL CALL YOU BACK.

Wife: Ok, I love you!

Bob: I LOVE YOU TOO! TALK TO YOU SOON!

Molly (name has been changed): Hi Dad!

Bob: HI! HOW'S YOUR DAY GOING???

Molly: OMG! (Continues to spill guts)

***Thirty-three minutes later***

Bob: OK, HONEY, I HAVE TO GO GET SOME WORK DONE. I'LL TALK TO YOU IN SIX HOURS WHEN I GET HOME.

(Dials number on office phone)

Wife: Hello?

Bob: HI, IT'S ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wife: Oh, hi honey.

Bob: SO LISTEN TO HOW MUCH MOLLY IS SCREWING UP.

***Hour passes***

Bob: AND DOESN'T SHE HAVE DANCE LESSONS TODAY? LET'S TALK ABOUT HER COLLEGE OPTIONS. AND HER COMMUNITY SERVICE IS ALMOST DONE WITH...

Repeat at least twice daily. Take cyanide as needed.

Why You Suck

If only I had the rest of my life to write this. I think I'll make this a new Thursday feature, unless I'm hungover and think it's Thursday but it's actually Tuesday. Lot of similar letters there, easy mistake to make. Just yesterday I thought it was Thursday. That's not even CLOSE to the word "Wednesday." But then, Tuesday was a washout, what with post-St. Pat's armageddon raging in my skull. As was Wednesday. Which, for two hours, was Thursday. After that it was Angryday, otherwise known as when Thursday reverted back to Wednesday. But I digress.

Back to not liking you. This time, it's because you think celebrities are "OMG, soooooo beautiful and awesome and [eyes widening, speech becoming rapid] and talented and interesting and [head exploding]. Because, in reality, no.

Seriously. No.

Recently my breaking point for the amount of this shit I can take was today when, from three different news sources, I heard/read about 1) Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony's twins, 2) Halle Barry's kid, and 3) Brad and Angelina's (OMG, BEST couple EVER!) upcoming twins.

The happy couple

Isn't it enough that every time Britny Spears has an off-colored shit we have to know about? Now we have to know everything about every celebrity's fuck trophies? Dammit.

Why do you care? Really, why? Email me, write me, call me (not really), something, anything. Is there something I'm just not getting? Why do you care what these people's kids look like and what they're doing. There's a 94.7% chance you're kids will be ugly, anyway. And possibly retarded. No need to raise your expectations.

Don't laugh, he's yours

So put down your can of PBR and your Us Magazine, turn off Entertainment Weekly, call Cletus and Marlene in from the landfill and spend some time with your own demon spawn. Stop worrying about people that shouldn't matter to you's kids.