Mad Max: I Said a Small Coffee

Mad Max


Listen, man, I’m not asking for trouble. Really, like, that’s the last thing I want in this nice Starbucks, especially while I’m here with my mom. But she’s already brought up twice today how she and my dad met when they were my age, so when I ask for a small coffee, all I want is a small coffee. So I don’t need you to ask me if I meant a “tall” coffee because: 1. you know that I did and 2. even if you didn’t, you could have just figured out that I wanted the smallest coffee you have available for purchase. There’s a reason you’re not a rocket scientist: it’s because you work at a coffee shop in a strip mall. So don’t act like I’m making your life difficult because you still get to spend all day listening to Paul McCartney deep cuts and making drinks with the word “crème” in the name of the flavor in what is structurally the same building as a frozen yogurt retailer and a fitness center used exclusively by women.

What the fuck is a tall coffee anyway? This is THE shortest cup you guys sell beverages in. I have no idea what frame of reference you’re using. Is it mice? I guess this cup coffee is tall compared to a mouse, but that seems pretty subjective, and, frankly, I don’t see how it’s relevant. (The same goes for insects, tennis balls, thimbles, and baby teeth.)

In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that the term “tall” is just an attempt justify charging almost two dollars for a paper cup full of a shit-storm-level stomach ache. The last thing I want to be reminded of as I purchase caffeinated battery acid that gives me a burning soupy form of diarrhea that I like to call Shitbutts is that I need to conform to the Starbucks corporate drink-size paradigm. Do you think I enjoy humiliation and Shitbutts? Do you think that’s what I’m paying for: to be reminded that a chain coffee shop is so omnipresent that they can ridicule customers for not using their drink sizes and then be given a beverage that results in me crying on the toilet?

No, I’m paying you for a small coffee. So when I ask for a small coffee, I don’t want to be upsold on a fucking Fiona Apple CD and I don’t want to be asked if I mean a “tall” coffee because if I meant a “tall” coffee, I would ask you for one. And if I wanted a Fiona Apple CD, I probably would’ve asked you for a tall coffee.

Is it because your manager is around? I can never tell because you all wear the same green aprons. At least a place like Cracker Barrel has the sense to rate their army of middle-aged waitresses on a five-star system of how bitter I should expect them to be/how many packs of Newports they must go through in the course of a shift’s smoke breaks. I’d say you guys should figure out some sort of system like this, but I’m sure it would be stupid and piss me off because I’d have to ask for the “Maestro Signore Il Duce” whenever I had an issue with a little “Paesan” who can’t just fucking take a drink order like he’s paid to stand in a climate controlled building with a constant soft rock soundtrack and do.

And just so you know, I understand the difference between video games and reality, but I’ve never wanted more intensely the ability to shoot lightning out of my hands than the moment you asked me if I meant a “tall” coffee. Not a lot of lightning—just enough to let you know that I meant a small coffee because that’s all I fucking want. Is that so much to ask?

One thought on “Mad Max: I Said a Small Coffee

  1. Pingback: An Open Letter to the Sun by Max Cothrel « Rascal Magazine

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