A slip of the...

Dear customers -

It's six in the morning.  I can appreciate not wanting to get out of your pajamas to get a cup of coffee.  Believe me, if I had my druthers, I'd still be in my pajamas sipping coffee, too.  By all means, you do what you need to do.

However - gentlemen, this part pertains to you - if you plan on patronizing this establishment in your pajamas, for fuck's sake, make sure the fly of your pajama bottoms is buttoned.  You're not awake yet.  I get it.  Neither am I, and 6:00 AM is no time for me to come to the realization that I am looking at your penis.  I assure you, that even when I am sufficiently caffeinated, I won't want to see it.  Hell, I could be drunk, and not want to see it.  I worked in an adult bookstore.  I have seen far too many dicks in my lifetime.  I assure you, yours is not memorable.

Signed,
Your disgruntled barista(who is too sleep-deprived for this shit).

Vote early, and vote often!

Dear readers -

I just added a survey in the sidebar - so go and vote?  Which features would you like to see more of?  If you've seen any I forgot to mention in the poll, or have any other ideas for me, let me know!  This poll closes on March 13th.

And now, because it seemed like a good idea at the time - 

 

Porn Shop Sunday - Technology's bitch.

Dear customers -

 Returns, people!  Why is this concept so fucking difficult?

You purchased a DVD from us, like you do every two or three days.  You told us it doesn't play in your DVD player, like you do every two or three days.  There's just a couple problems with this.  First off, we tried it on three different DVD players here at the porn shop, and it plays just fine, just like all the other movies you returned, or attempted to return.  Second, you already told us that it plays just fine on your machine at home.  The problem, you say?  It doesn't play on the DVD player in your car.  Did it occur to you that it might be that particular machine?   It's not like it's a factory installed player.  I've seen your car.  You drive a Geo Metro.  A fucking Geo Metro, for fuck's sake.  Chances are, you have a portable DVD player plugged into your cigarette lighter.  Chances are, you bought it for $20 at Big Lots.  Not exactly a quality product.

So yes, you can watch "White Jocks and Monster Cocks" or "Granny Gang Bang" or whatever the fuck you've been buying.  It works.  the problem...yeah, I'm pretty sure the problem is you, clown dick.  My guess is that the problem involves you going home, burning the DVDs, and attempting to return them.  We're all very disappointed in you.  Here's a fun idea for you - go home and disappoint your wife.  I know you can manage that.

Signed,
Your friendly local rubber dick saleswoman.

Great moments in work history - The eight year itch.

 About 10 years ago, I had a job in a housewares store.  As is the case with virtually all retail establishments, the customers do stupid shit, ask stupid shit, and of course, try to return stupid shit.

Dear customers -

I don't know how many times I have to day this.  I really don't.  Certain things are not meant to be returned.  If an item is damaged, of course, return it - within a reasonable amount of time.

 Let me put this into simpler terms...a day, a week, hell even a month - this is a reasonable amount of time.  More often than not, you need to present your original receipt at the time of the return.  If you come to me with a basting brush with a retail value of $8.00 - not exactly a great expenditure here - that you purchased eight fucking years ago, fuck you, you don't get a refund.  Yes, I see that it has exactly four bristles left.  You admitted that you bought it eight years ago.  After that amount of time, that basting brush doesn't owe you a fucking dime, and neither do we.

And no, you can't exchange it for a new one.  We don't even carry that one anymore.  No, I don't know why.  Maybe because the bristles spontaneously fall out after eight years.  Either we stopped carrying them, or you bought it someplace else.  That would be my guess, but that's just me.

Signed,
Your disgruntled retail associate.

Conversations at Work - This better not be the Jerky Boys.

And now, for something a little different.

Occasionally, the interactions we have with our customers don't really seem to work in letter form.  Sometimes, the conversation itself needs to tell the story.

This was a phone conversation between Shannon, one of my former coworkers(as well as a long-time friend of mine) and a customer.  Now, Shannon has a certain way with words, especially when dealing with customers.  This guy had a rather prominent New Jersey accent, which sells it.  Think of Carl, the neighbor from Aqua Teen Hunger Force, while you read this one.  As I recall, it went something like this -

Shannon - How may I help you?
Customer - Yeah.  I was just in there, and a got a coffee.
Shannon - Was there a problem, sir?
Customer -Yeah.  The damn top came off.  I spilled it on my shirt, and my trousers, and my crotch.
Shannon - Excuse me?
Customer - Yeah.  I spilled it on my shirt, and my trousers, and my crotch.
Shannon - Wow.  That must have sucked, sir.
Customer - You're damn right it sucked!
Shannon - Well, sir, is there anything you'd like us to do?
Customer - No.  I just wanted to let you know I spilled my coffee on my shirt, and my trousers, and my crotch.

Driving Miss Daisy Part II - Daisy's Revenge.

Dear customers -

You've all experienced the wonders of our parking lot.  Yes, it's awful.  We've established that.  Of course, since you all know just how bad it is, taking caution is always the best course of action.

Once again, however, some of you are just too fucking old to be driving.  I don't see any indication that there's actually a person operating the vehicle except for a pouf of blue hair barely peeking over the steering wheel.


If you hear another car honking while you're pulling out of your spot, you might want to stop and see if someone is behind you - not drive faster.  Didn't see them?  I'm not surprised.


In the likely event that you do hit another vehicle, don't just fucking drive away.  That shit didn't fly when you got your license a century ago.  Just because you're practically mummified doesn't change that any.


And to the old fart in the silver Toyota - I saw you hit that parked car.  I was taking out the garbage.  You took the time to get out and see the damage.  I told you to get your sorry ass inside and find the owner, but you ignored me and took off.  Yeah, you.  I know who you are.  I got your license plate number, clown dick.


Signed,
Your disgruntled barista - not the fucking parking lot attendant.

Driving Miss Daisy Part I.

Dear customers -

 It has come to my attention that, much like our pal Gertrude, many of you are far too fucking old to drive.  There are several indicators that can point you to this conclusion.  However, since common sense escapes so many of you, here's just a couple off the top of my head.

 The other day, I found a license plate in the parking lot.  This isn't the first time it's happened.  Those concrete humps at the end of the parking spot?  Yeah.  That's where you want to stop.  Otherwise, you fuck up your bumper something awful, and may rip off the license plate in the process.  Of course, this doesn't occur solely because the driver is too old.  Quite often, there is a fucking cell phone involved.  However, these are usually the people who come back at bitch that our parking lot fucked up their car.

Some of you, however, take it even further.  The handicapped parking sign?  That needs to stay there.  It doesn't work if you run it over.  That goes for the pay phone, too.  Not going to function if it's wedged into the radiator of your Cadillac.

And then somehow, one of you managed to do all three - jump the parking hump, take out one of the handicapped parking signs, and plow straight into the pay phone.  Not only did you have to jump the curb to do it, but make a full-blown left turn after running down the sign.  That, my friends, takes fucking talent.


Signed,
Your disgruntled barista.

 

Happy(belated) President's Day!

As happens all too often, this song was stuck in my head again today.  Since the video is just so appropriate(a.k.a. inappropriate) for President's Day, I had to share.

I hope you all enjoyed purchasing mattresses yesterday.  If you can tell me why they go on sale for President's Day, tell me in the comments.

No, you can't phone home...or the nail salon.

Dear customers -

No, you can't use our phone.  That phone is necessary for our business.  It's not an emergency.  You're calling the nail salon across the street, and I can see your cell phone in the holster on your belt.

You have other options, you know.  If your battery died, I understand.  While you were out in the parking lot yammering away on your cell phone, you were standing right next to a pay phone.  Remember those?  Back in the olden days, people would use them to talk to other people.  I'm sure you won't feel as cool using a phone that's attached to a wire instead of your face, but trust me, it works.  

Of course, if you're too cheap to spend the fifty cents to use the pay phone, here's a novel idea for you.  Hear me out on this one.  Maybe...just maybe...you can trot your happy ass across the street to the nail salon.  It's not that far.  I can see it from here.  It's over by the liquor store.


And no, you can't borrow my cell phone.  Stop asking.  I don't even bring it with me half the fucking time.


Signed,
Your disgruntled barista.

Return to sender - insufficient brain activity.

Dear customers -

As we've previously discussed, you don't get free shit for being stupid - "the ice cubes are too big" is not a reason for me to give you a free drink.  I think I should let you know that you can't return shit because your stupid, either.  

I will be happy to refund your money if there is something wrong with the sandwich you just purchased.  However, you can't return the sandwich you just bought because we're out of paper bags.  It doesn't work that way.  I think you can manage carrying it 50 feet to your car.

You can't return your bagel because we won't put the cream cheese on it for you.  I already sliced and toasted it for you.  You have a little cup of cream cheese.  You have a knife. I assure you, the mechanics aren't hard to figure out.


And no, you can't return that coffee mug.  You didn't even buy the fucking thing here.


Signed,
Your disgruntled barista.

Porn Shop Sunday - look at the package. And the package on it.

 One of my previous jobs was in an adult bookstore.  With all the stories this job provided me, it warrants its own special day(with the emphasis on "special").  Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you - Porn Shop Sunday!

Dear customers -

This really, really isn't the kind of business in which we can accept returns.  Naturally, we can take returns on defective products, such as vibrators that begin to smoke during use.

However, "This isn't what I thought it was" is not an acceptable reason to return a product.  I was working when you purchased the product.  You came in with your hat pulled down, asked me where we kept the blow-up dolls, and grabbed the first one off the shelf without so much as looking at the package.

In this case, had you taken the time to read the package, you would have discovered that your Mystery Date for the evening was none other than the Foxy Angel Transsexual Love Doll.  See the dick in the photo?  Yeah, the doll has one of those.  Next time, you may want to check and see if your doll has a penis before you blow it up.


Signed,
Your friendly local rubber dick saleswoman.

Great moments in work history - I believe the children are our future(Darwin Award winners).

I've had a number of different jobs over the years.  I've sold everything from rubber dicks to women's shoes, and I have plenty of stories to tell about these jobs as well.  Right now, I'm thinking that weekends may need to be devoted to letters to the patrons of these former places of employment.  It can't hurt to change things up a little here and there.

Today, we have a letter to the customers of a craft store I worked in a number of years back.  I visited one the other day, and sadly, this letter is still applicable.

Dear customers -

I can't stress enough the importance of supervising your children when you venture out into the world.  They're kids.  Kids have a tendency to do stupid shit.  It is your job as parents to teach them not to do stupid shit, and not merely expect the employees of whatever retail establishment they happen to be terrorizing to do it for you.

What it all boils down to is this - the fake fruit we sell?  Yeah.  It's fake.  I know it looks yummy, but it's not food.  Every single night that I clean that particular section of the store, I find at least half a dozen pieces of plastic fruit sporting teeth marks.  It never fails.  I'd tell you to feed your damn kids before you leave the house, yet for some strange reason, I get the feeling that they don't do this at the supermarket.  You've taught them not to eat things there, but not at the craft store.  There's something wrong with this picture.  Just because it looks like food doesn't mean that it's food.  Have fun when your little bastard poops out a bunch of plastic grapes.


Signed,
Your disgruntled retail associate.
 

Ode to Gertrude.

As I mentioned a while back, I will occasionally write a letter to a specific customer.  Of course, the names will be changed to protect the innocent...or in this case, the incontinent. 


This letter is to Gertrude.  Many years ago, she was one of my regular customers, and she was always...um...interesting.


Dear Gertrude -

 It's been quite some time since I've seen you.  My guess is that you aren't allowed to drive anymore.  Still, you've been in the back of my mind.  People like you are hard to forget.


I still recall one incident in particular.  You received your drink and your usual four brownies, and as per usual, headed over to the condiment bar to dump 47 packets of Equal into your americano.  As you did this, I noticed the dark spot slowly growing and creeping down the leg of your pants.  Anyone else would have been mortified, and would have taken the next logical step - get their ass home and change into clothes not soaked in urine.  But not you, Gertrude, not you.  No, you proceeded to sit down in the cafe to consume the beverage, as well as all four of the brownies.  I have to ask - do you realize that you were sitting there, basting in your own juices, for a good 45 minutes?  Somehow, I doubt it.  Please, please, please...invest in some Depends.  We'll all be so much happier for it.


On a final note - I know you told me about lapsing into a diabetic coma.  For some reason, you seemed completely surprised by this.  I may not have a medical degree, but those four brownies you'd eat on a daily basis?  My guess is those had something to do with it.  My diagnosis is a terminal case of stupid.


Signed,
Your disgruntled barista(who does not get paid nearly enough to clean up your bodily fluids).


P.S. - If you happen to run into that old lady who took a dump in our hallway, tell her to stop stealing the damn toilet seat covers.

Can I help you - or rather, can you be helped?

Dear customers -

A large portion of my day consists of making small talk.  This small talk usually involves having the same conversation over...and over...and over again.  Chances are, I know what you're going to say before you say it.


When I ask if you'd like anything else, that could mean a multitude of things - room for milk in your coffee, a copy of your receipt, something to eat, more toilet paper in the bathroom.  Actually, there's a good sporting chance that toilet paper will be your answer.

If I ask you this question, don't tell me "A stack of hundreds".  You say the same fucking thing every day.  It wasn't funny the first time.  It damn sure isn't funny now.

Another inappropriate answer to this question - "Did I ask for anything else?"  No, you didn't.  You were too busy on your fucking cell phone for me to get a word in edgewise.  Would you like me to punch you in the tit?  That can be arranged.

And finally, there's that old chestnut, "To take you out to dinner?", or something of similar ilk.  Really?  Dude, you're 60, and your wife is ten feet away putting way too much Equal in her coffee.  There's really no good reason to ask the question when we both know what the answer will be.

Signed,
Your disgruntled barista(who is starved for intelligent conversation).

Why can't baristas teach their clients how to speak?

Dear customers -

 The beverage is known as a "caramel macchiato".  It is not a "caramel match-iato", a "caramel Macchio", nor a "caramel machismo".  You've been ordering the same drink for ten years now, and you've heard us properly pronounce it for ten years.  I'm not sure it's possible to be that oblivious.  Calling it a "caramel mariachi", a "caramel Maui Wowie", or a "caramel mecca-lecca-hi-mecca-hiney-ho" - we don't care what you think, it's not cute.  You sound like a blithering idiot.

Signed,
Your disgruntled barista.

P.S. - While we're at it, it's a "chai tea latte"...not a "tai chi latte".

I see you rollin'. I'm hatin'.

Dear customers -

Yes, our parking lot is God awful. I've been saying this for years, and I'm fairly confident that it won't get better any time soon.  However, if you want your coffee that badly, it's something you're going to have to deal with.  You might want to try to do so like a civilized human being.

First of all - I can't stress this enough - put down the fucking cell phone.  You know how I feel about those things.  You can't handle talking on the phone and throwing away your garbage at the same time.  How the fuck do you think you can handle talking on the phone while pulling your Escalade into a parking spot?  You can barely see over the steering wheel as it is, and I'm sure the sunglasses that take up half your face don't help matters.

Of course, looking where you're going might help, too.  You don't know how many times some bimbo soccer mom has almost backed over me while I was taking out the garbage, all because she couldn't put the phone down for two seconds to fucking pay attention.

And then, don't fucking honk at me because I'm in your way.  I'm trying to do my job.  All you're doing is trying to set up a "play date"(a term I hate with a passion) for little Dylan or Madison or whatever the hell people call their little bastards nowadays.  Remember - just because you drive a luxury car doesn't entitle you to right of way.  I know it's difficult to comprehend, but if you pulled your head out of your ass once in a while, I'm sure you could figure it out.

Signed,
Your disgruntled barista(who is surprised she hasn't become roadkill yet).

And there's a picture of a train!

Happy Valentine's Day from Letters To My Customers!

Happy V.D., everybody.

Dear customers -

This isn't so much a rant about you as it is about this bullshit holiday.  Don't worry - I'm still going to bitch about you, too.

Yes, it's Valentine's Day.  I get it.  This holiday is supposed to be about love.  Considering the fact that so many of you seem to be in marriages of convenience, or just plain old trophy wives, I don't see why it matters.  All I care about is chocolate going on sale tomorrow.  This fucking holiday is about chocolate.  If you bring me chocolate, perhaps I won't be tempted to punch you in the uterus.

I know that tonight, we're going to get a fuckload of teenagers coming in on "dates".  We'll get the girls who aren't old enough to realize that it's a bullshit holiday.  You'll grow out of your pink and red glitter heart phase soon enough.  And then there's the boys, who are just old enough to realize that they can use Valentine's Day as an excuse to get down their girls' pants.  Ladies - it doesn't matter how old you are.  Some things never change, and men looking for any reason to get laid is one of those things.  You're all idiots.  That will probably never change, either.  This will probably not be the great romance of your life, but I think you deserve each other.

I'm not big on public displays of affection.  Never have been.  But please, for the love of all that's holy, we serve food here.  Get your tongue back in your own mouth, get off your douchebag boyfriend's lap, and get your hands out of that poor stupid girl's panties before I feel the need to call the CDC.

Signed,
Your disgruntled(and thankfully single) barista.

You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake.

Dear customers -

Please stop getting pissy with me when I don't remember your drink off the top of my head. I probably make a couple hundred drinks a day - at least, it feels that way. While I do remember a great deal of them, I don't have the superhuman ability to recall every single one.  Your iced coffee really doesn't stand out in my head.

Typically, if I do remember your beverage, it's for one of two reasons - either you're one of my regular customers who has the decency to treat me like a human being, or you're such a fucking clown dick that I make absolutely certain to memorize your order.  That way, I never have to talk to you again.  I can simply make your drink and move on with my life, instead of listening to you whining how there isn't enough decaf in your drink. You ordered half-caf.  It's half decaf, and half regular.  You want two-thirds decaf, fucking ask for it.


Signed,
Your disgruntled barista.

Change is good...just not at 8 AM.

Dear customers -

 We're in the middle of the morning rush.  It happens at more or less the same time every day.  You come in at more or less the same time every day.  Therefore, you should know by now that there's going to be 15 people on line behind you.  You had plenty of time to fuck around with your wallet while you were waiting for us to help the 15 people that were on line ahead of you.  It makes everyone's life easier if you have your fucking money ready.  Quit fumbling around with all the other crap in your wallet.

Handing me your gym membership card, library card, PBA card, or whatever the fuck else is in your wallet isn't going to pay for your coffee.  You know where your credit card is.  Hell, you've got six of them.  Fucking pick one.

The morning rush is also not the time to pay with loose change.  I know how it is.  It's one thing when you have to use the pennies in your car's cup holder to pay for shit.  It's another when you've got plenty of cash on hand, and just want to get rid of your change.  Go to the fucking bank like a normal human being.

And finally, once you're done fucking around and holding up the line, don't leave all the receipts and gum wrappers and shit from your wallet on the counter.  We've been over this.  That can over there?  Yeah.  That's where the garbage lives.

Signed,
Your disgruntled barista - not the fucking Coin Star machine.

The best part of waking up...

Dear customers -

 Please stop stealing supplies from the bathroom.  You're driving a Mercedes.  I saw it when you almost ran me over while I was taking out the garbage.  I think you can afford to purchase your own toilet paper.  If not, your $20 a day coffee addiction probably has something to do with that.  Having the ability to wipe your ass is slightly more important than espresso.  Yeah.  Just a little bit.  

As for the paper toilet seat covers, I'm not sure I want to know what you need those for.  Is your bathroom at home so disgusting that you require them?  Maybe you should try cleaning it.  Radical idea, I know.  I have those once in a while.


I know who you are.  I saw you and your handful of purloined toilet seat covers running for the door.  No surprise, this was immediately after I found the steaming pile of shit in the hallway by the bathrooms.  Now, I can't say that we've all taken a dump in public, but I can see how embarrassing it might be.  However, I would greatly appreciate it if you would either make an effort to clean up after yourself, or at the very least, inform one of the staff members so we can take care of it.  I'm not sure when leaving the pile of shit in the hallway for another customer to find seemed like the appropriate way to handle the situation.  I can assure you that walking into one's favorite local coffee shop and stepping in human fecal matter is not a good start to the day.


Signed,
Your disgruntled barista(who is ready to procure a hazmat suit).

You don't get a free drink because you suck at life.

Dear customers -

I will be more than happy to remake your drink if I made it incorrectly, or if I made the incorrect drink.  I won't give you a free cup of coffee because it's too hot.  It's a freshly brewed pot of coffee, dumbass.  It's supposed to be hot. I'm not making your drink again because you let it sit for 45 minutes.  If I've said it once, I'll say it again - get off your fucking cell phone already.  I sure as hell won't give you a free drink because "the ice cubes are too big".  I don't even know where to begin with that one.  Getting free shit is always a good thing.  I'm not going to deny that.  For fuck's sake, quit abusing the system.

Signed,
Your disgruntled barista(who's seriously sick of your shit).

Thank you for your patience...oh, wait. never mind.

Dear customers -

You see that I'm changing the garbage in the condiment bar.  While I appreciate your efforts, and applaud you for finally figuring out that this is where the garbage lives, there are currently no trash bags in the can, nor is there a trash can in the condiment stand.  As it is, I spend the majority of my life cleaning up after you.  I'm really not in any mood to hose out the garbage can, or spend the next 20 minutes wiping down and sanitizing the condiment stand I just finished cleaning.  Perhaps, if you got off of your fucking cell phone for two seconds and paid attention to your surroundings, this wouldn't be an issue.

Signed,
Your disgruntled, latte-saturated barista.   

Stupid question time - thank you, come again...or don't. Yeah, that one.

Dear customers -

This is a coffee shop.  We sell coffee here.  We not sell French fries here.  

If you want to buy beer, there's a liquor store across the street. We do not sell cigarettes.  You can buy those at the liquor store, too.  No, I don't have one I can give you.  

If you want toilet paper, there's a drug store next to the liquor store. We don't sell it. Please don't steal it. 

We do not sell stamps.  the post office is two doors down.  No, I don't have any I can sell you.

We do not sell ice cream.  No, I can't make you a chocolate soda.  We really don't sell ice cream.  Asking the manager isn't going to make ice cream magically appear.  

And I'm not sure why you think we sell tennis balls, but please put on some pants.

Signed,
Your disgruntled barista(who is half tempted to ask you to buy her a fifth of Cuervo when you go across the street).

Today's PSA for birth control - teenage girls are vile creatures.

Dear customers -

No, you can't have a children's size hot chocolate. I know you're at that delicate age where you want Mommy and Daddy to treat you like an adult, but you're still a child.  However, in this particular scenario, you do not qualify as a child.  You drove here.  I saw you.  I'm guessing that's Mommy's Lexus.  In case you can't read - put down the cell phone, little girl - the menu board clearly says "12 and under".  If you're old enough to give a blowjob, you're too fucking old for a children's hot chocolate.  There's a fun idea for you - just don't do it in our bathroom.

And don't sit on my fucking tables. I don't know where your skanky ass has been.  Two minutes ago, you were practically giving your boyfriend a lap dance in the cafe, so I'm sure I don't want to know. But it damn sure doesn't belong on my fucking tables. You wouldn't do that at home, would you? Fuck you, and fuck your parents for raising you to be spoiled brats. 

Now go the fuck home. We close at 10. Don't call to ask when we close, show up at 9:58, and just hang out without buying anything. Get the fuck out of my store. Go loiter in front of the 7-11 like normal teenagers.

Signed,

The disgruntled barista who never would have behaved that way when she was your age.

The (real) official State Bird of New Jersey.

Dear customers -

Yes, we lock the back door at night. You can handle using the front entrance. It's an extra 25 feet to the parking lot.  Considering how much you were whining about the caloric content of that beverage - yes, I'm talking to you with the extra caramel and extra whipped cream - your fat ass could use it. We lock it for our own personal safety, not to inconvenience you, so don't flip us off when we make you use the front door.

Same goes for when you show up after closing. The hours are very clearly posted on the door. Learn to fucking read, or maybe get off the fucking cell phone.  We're still there because we have to clean up after obnoxious teenagers, not to taunt you. Don't show up 20 minutes after we close and expect us to stop what we're doing, reboot our computers, open a cash register, brew a fresh pot of coffee and/or wait 15 minutes for the boiler in the espresso machine to heat up again, effectively putting us another half an hour behind schedule. If you do, once again, don't flip us off. At that point in the evening, someone might just give the finger right back to you.

Signed,
Your disgruntled barista who just wants to go the fuck home.

Can you read, or do we need to start using the buddy system?

Dear customers -

For the last time, I do not have a cash register at the espresso bar. One of the reasons I'm always behind the espresso bar is so I don't have to talk to you - partly because I can't hear you, and partly because you're probably an asshole. See the sign that reads "Line begins here"? Yeah. The line begins there. If you didn't place your order at the register, chances are I don't have your order. Therefore, that drink on the counter is not yours. That is for someone who actually paid for their drink, and is probably going to get pissed off at me if you walk off with it. Ultimately, I will have to remake that person's drink, which will hold up the line, and will piss off all the other people waiting for their drinks. In turn, this will piss me off, which will lead to me drinking on the job.


Signed,
Your disgruntled(and surprisingly sober) barista.

Potty training - not just for children anymore.

Dear customers -

I don't know what you do in your bathrooms at home, and I probably don't want to.  This is a unisex bathroom.  Gentlemen - not only in this establishment, but all men, in all bathrooms, everywhere - can we please make an effort to urinate in the toilet?  Not on the floor, on the seat, or on the wall - in the actual toilet bowl.  I'm almost certain that you've had a penis your entire life.  If it's been this many years, and you still can't use it properly, I may have to take it away from you.


What I find even more repulsive - and slightly more unsettling - is the dirty diaper left on the changing table in the bathroom.  Really?  See the big black can next to the changing table?  That's where the garbage lives.  I know it's gross, but you found the intestinal fortitude to spawn the little bastard.  I think you can handle discarding a poopie diaper.

Signed,
Your disgruntled, thoroughly grossed-out barista. 


P.S. - While we're on the subject - as I just mentioned, there is a changing table in the restroom.  Please, for fuck's sake, stop using the tables in the cafe for this purpose.  I don't even know where to begin with that one.

Stupid question time - tea and apathy.

Dear customers -

Yes, there is caffeine in green tea. No, chamomile tea does not have caffeine. No, it does not contain trace amounts of caffeine. It's herbal tea. There are no tea leaves in herbal tea, and therefore, no caffeine.  Yes, the green tea has caffeine. We already discussed this. No, the mint tea does not have caffeine. Once again, the herbal teas do not have caffeine. Yes, I understand that you have vertigo and can't have caffeine. Yes, the green tea is caffeinated. No, the chai latte does not come in decaf. No, it never did. Yes, there is still caffeine in the green tea. Go fuck yourself.


Signed,
Your disgruntled barista(who needs something stronger than caffeine at this point).