Real men don’t drop ten bucks for a cup of milk foam served by a tattooed 19-year-old barista who thinks “latte art” is a career.
Real men’s coffee comes in only two forms.
First, the Styrofoam cup at the gas pump or the drive-thru at a fast-food joint. The wrench-turners drop two bucks, slam it in the cupholder, and head to the job site to pour concrete, hang drywall, or fix what’s broken. No flavors, no foam, no nonsense. They’ve got real work to do.
Second, the bottomless diner mug. That’s where the Old Geezers gather for a “Grumble” at the 24/7. It’s burnt coffee in a chipped mug, poured by a waitress named Barb or Wanda who calls everyone “hon,” lights her smokes off the flat-top, and may or may not have a full set of teeth. The coffee never stops flowing, and neither does the yammer: Politics, sports, losers, wimps, weather and of course, more Politics. It’s the Geezers’ Gripe & Grumble coffee klatch in all its glory.
Everyone else? They’re the barista bums, the latte ladies, and the boys in skinny britches. They huddle in Starbucks sipping $8 pumpkin-oat-foam-choco-fusion ventis, pretending to “work” on laptops while they scroll Instagram, post grindset quotes, or have Twitter fusses with their coffee sippy clique of quasi-employed losers.
Working men get coffee and get to work.
Barista bums buy overpriced coffee-flavored milkshakes and avoid working.
