neverbeencool

Yes, folks. What you see here is all that remains from a Grande Non-Fat No Whip White Chocolate Mocha, purchased and consumed by Our Hero first thing this morning. And so the no coffee for Justin streak dies after approximately 49 days. So it goes.

Now, before we get into exactly what brought Our Hero to this state of weakness, a quick word to the Starbucks haters:

Suck It.

Fine. Two words. Whatever.

Point is that I don’t care about why you hate them. Sorry if you feel like their dominance put your favorite joint out of business or if you’re sure they sacrifice baby seals to maintain that market share.

Fact is that:

a)They make decent coffee that you can find anywhere and always know what you’re getting, and

b)Well, there isn’t really a “b.” I just don’t care about your opinions.

I lied. There is a second one. The whole Howard Schultz-suing-to-regain-ownership-of-the-Sonics-and-keep -them-in-Seattle thing. Sure, he might just be grandstanding and milking the public for some goodwill, but if he can pull it off, I’ll not only start drinking coffee regularly again, but it’ll only be Starbucks. And every person I know will receive Starbucks gift cards for their birthdays, etc. And I’ll get that logo of their’s tatooed on my arse.

Ok, maybe not that last one. I will, though, help with the harvest and cultivation of those baby seals.

So this morning…

Started off with me combining Kashi GoLEAN Crunch with Trader Joe’s SuperMegaUltraFiber O’s. NOT A GOOD COMBINATION.

Remember those old SNL “Colon Blow” commercials? Yeah. So a 20-30 minute ride on the train after eating more fiber in one sitting than most people consume in a week? Not very comfortable.

So I was already feeling cranky (and pained, and hoping to the Lords of Cobol that I could make it to the office) when another guy squeezed himself into the seat next to me. A guy at least my size. All up in my bubble while I’m trying my damnedest to concentrate on Sula and not shitting myself.

To give you some perspective…

I’m not certain exactly how wide the seats on the MAX are, but I’d assume they’re roughly the same size (if not smaller) than most domestic coach airline seats. A little bit o’ Googlin’ turns up a site called SeatGuru with a handy little chart showing that most of those seats are around 17-18 inches wide on most airlines.

I measured myself (my width, perv) when I got to the office. Turns out I’m about 21 inches wide, shoulder-to-shoulder. For you non-math types, that means I’m about 3-4 inches wider than the space I’m in. (And while I can certainly stand to lose a couple of pounds, I keep that in my gut. We’re just talking about general body frame here.)

It also means that, unless you’re <14-15 inches wide, you SHOULDN’T FUCKING SIT NEXT TO ME.

Or rather, on me. Because that’s really all there’s room for. If you’re the same size as me or wider, and you aren’t willing to spill out into the aisle, you will not fit without crushing me against the wall or sitting my lap. And either of those will likely make me wanna shank a bitch.

Especially if he’s trying to focus on not pooing. I eventually just got up and stood for the remainder of the trip, trying to light him on fire with the power of my mind until my stop. Didn’t work… yet.

(Quick aside… this is the kind of post that coffee leads to. A rambling, herky-jerky stream of consciousness that might very well induce vomiting. I’m totally quitting again after this post.)

Finally got off the train, power walked to the office, and, um, took care of business.*

Sweet, yet short-lived, relief.

As I was walking to my desk, I was ambushed by a coworker who needed techy help.** Normally not my job, but being the only nerd in the office for the rest of the week, I have to cover for the whole group.

After I took care of her and walked back to my desk, another one came over. With another stupid non-existent problem. One that wouldn’t be any of my business if it wasn’t for the other people being out of the office.

And that was all before 8am.

Couple that with the knowledge of my impending Texas trip and the fact that I’ll probably have to work both of the next two weekends in preparation? Let’s just say that, if I’d had a flask on me, I’d have skipped that foofoo drink and Irished up some regular coffee instead. Instead? Mocha-y goodness.

But the day wasn’t completely lost. That picture? Taken with my new Canon SD1100.*** This one here:

Ain’t she purty? Of course, I had to take that picture with my camera phone, so the quality isn’t so great.

But since I know those food blogs are all the rage, here’s my lunch for the day:

Give me a break. I just dropped $300 on a camera, SD card, and a case. Didn’t feel like kicking down the three bucks for a sandwich after that.

It’s your fault, anyway. I told you all to buy that camera for me. Now if I die from malnutrition, it’s totally on you. Bad minions! Bad!

*Quick question of etiquette…

At the office, we have two stalls (in addition to the two urinals). One’s the big, cushy handicapped number, the other’s the normal-sized one.

So under normal circumstance, I think the right thing to do is to take the larger one (unless you have people in your office with a legitimate need for the extra space and you give a shit about that person). You get the extra room and don’t feel cramped in.

However, I also think you’re supposed to take the stall furthest away from the door. People don’t hear/smell your business that much, and you’re less likely to accidentally see who enters/leaves the other stall, thus creating awkward hand-washing conversation.

So I never know which to take: the one that’s bigger but closer to the rest of the action, or the one that’s smaller but less likely to lead to an uncomfortable post-poo experience? Curious to know what my fellow men think.

Oh, and I know Laurie Notaro covered this topic in one of her books, but I’m not sure her rules apply for men. Besides, as a Man, I shouldn’t acknowledge that I know anything about her.

**A public service announcement for you non-tech types out there:

NEVER jump the IT guy before he has a chance to settle in. Unless something is on fire, let him get a chance to take off his coat, put down his bag, and, maybe, grab a cup of something before you start bombarding him with whatever self-imposed travesty you’ve managed to create this time.

Just remember: the IT guy has access to all your files and email. And your browser history. He usually doesn’t give a fuck what you’re doing, but if you piss him off? You can count on your collection of animal-on-midget porn finding its way to HR.

And don’t think you’re safe because you don’t have such a collection. Won’t take him long to change that.

***Normally, I’d save a little cash by buying something like this online or, if I wanted instant gratification, go over to smaller mom-n-pop place. Instead, I picked this up at Office Depot.

Why? Because the last time I was there, I left Anikka’s new flower mouse pad at the counter and one of the sales people ran me down (3-4 blocks, in the rain) to give it to me. I figured I owed a karmic debt to the store that would chase a customer down just to give them their five-buck mouse pad.

And the mouse pad made Ani very happy.

And it goes with her ladybug mouse (which I hope Jacob’s daddy won’t mistakenly shoot on site).