Dear Smelly Poser Hippies,
I can smell you across the counter. Even if I step back. I can tell you don't use deodorant either, and you smell like oil and dirt and unwashed hair and old food, not flowers. Your dreds look like you slathered them with Crisco before you left the house. The stains on your shirt are not attractive and holes generally mean it's time to buy a new one.
And then you prattle on about the art of espresso and how our machines make it inferiorly to your carpal tunnel-causing, tedious preferred method--really, do you think Starbucks would use a Verssimo machine if it wasn't just as good? Yeah, the art is gone, but it tastes just the same--possibly better because it's harder to fuck up.
And you're at a Starbucks for heaven's sake! If you really were a hard-working, mother-earth-loving, real hippie, you'd go to a local cafe, not the sprawling, transnational pillar of suburban society that we are.
But you come groveling to us for a caffeine fix, while complaining about how we don't make it strong enough and how the art is gone and how it's so much better in the Northwest because they make properly strong coffee and how if we really loved coffee, we'd go up there.
We work at Starbucks. We know what good coffee tastes like and we can make it here. Ask for a French press instead of looking like an ass in front of the baristas. Ask for more shots instead of pretend you know what you're talking about, because we know you don't.
Do you know why you think they make it better up there? It's a national myth, started because Starbucks came from there. No other reason, really.
So take yer cup of supposedly inferior coffee, go take a bath and become a real hippie someplace else.
Love,
Every Starbucks Barista That Has Ever Had To Put Up With You
From GOOD magazine, a fabulous online mag that has some really great stuff.
