Life as Spam
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(a very short story about a day in the life of a disciple of the culture of death)
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*NOTE* This post only contains the first four paragraphs of the story. The entire story is over here at my short story blog, Poboy Muse.
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I looked over my balcony this morning just in time to see a new Volkswagen Jetta run a red light and get T'ed by a Chevrolet Tahoe. I heard a woman's voice screaming about a baby (who makes the best car seats?) as I went back inside and made myself a cup of Tazo China Green Tips. It took twelve minutes for me to sip to the bottom of my Todd and Holland tea cup. After I finished, I got up, rinsed the dregs of leaves and Australian Beechworth honey out of my cup and toasted an onion bagel from Weiss'. Then, I showered, dressed, splashed on some Eternity, and left the apartment.
Wearing my new Brooks Brothers tie makes me feel like the captain of a ship, the ship of my life. Call me "Captain James T. Kirk." My life is the Starship Enterprise. There are plenty of expendable crewmen aboard. I must admit, I'm not interested in going where no man has gone before. I just want to go to Starbuck's. To Starbuck's! I will boldly go where I may drink $3 coffee and listen to Norah Jones in an aesthetically pleasing environment free and far from the cares of other men.
No luck. As soon as I arrive at the front of the line an older man at the condiments counter (are sugar, honey and cinammon considered condiments?) groans, grabs his chest, says "Help!" and falls on the floor. All this transpires before the barista (are there masculine and feminine forms of barista? baristess? probably not, it is a nice gender-neutral term, perfect for all the androgynous baristas. baristi? ah, the blessings of egalitarianism) can take my order (by the way, the barista was clearly a girl. I could tell by her Threadless baby doll tee). I was really looking forward to a latte.
I think, "I'm going to be late for work. Good thing I didn't place my order, otherwise I'd never get out of here." Actually, I might have said that out loud, because the barista (baristess?) says, "Lucky you. At least you can leave. I've got to stay and clean up his mess" as she cocks her thumb over her shoulder at the man writhing on the floor. As I look down at him on my way out the door I think, "I can't imagine how dirty it is on that floor." Again, what I thought I thought, I actually said out loud. Another barista (bariston? - one of the baristess's male coworkers) answers me. "I just mopped the floors an hour ago." Does he have any idea the foot traffic at the condiments (?) counter in his own establishment?
Read the rest
Related Tags: Satire, Fiction, Short Stories, Culture of Death







