His Coffee Shall Taste Of Wormwood
9:00am. The only way I can cope with the agony of hauling my bloated carcass out of the hammock this early in the morning is by guzzling an inordinate amount of black coffee. Real strong coffee. Coffee with a liberal splash of La Fee Verte -absinthe- and drank out of the skull of Alfredo Garcia (or an ashtray will suffice if said head is unavailable). The amount of absinthe poured in tends to vary from morning to morning and I've found that the older I get the more of that foul, anise-flavoured green liquor I need to kick start my brain. Sometimes I even forget to put the coffee in.
I stagger in to the office after several mugs of "coffee" and hand "Bernie", the other manager-type guy, a cup of my home brew. 'I boucht you shome latte,' I slur. He takes a sip and recoils as if he just sustained a left hook.
'What the hell did you put in this?' he asks, shaken.
'Jus....jus....jusabbit of coffee. Thass goodforyew. Goodforyew.'
'Fatty. Are you drunk?'
'YOU'D be drunk too ifyew haddasmuch coffee as I have this morning!' I quip as my body goes crashing over the table, disconnecting the fax machine.
It has been said that there seems to be an unhealthy amount of thujone in my morning cups o'Joe, and that by the third cup most people who imbibe this concoction have long hallucinogenic episodes and suffer renal failure. Most countries have banned this substance altogether. Yet even the harshest critics agree that the liquid is a good anti-malarial substance. So as I pick my body up off the floor to start the first of my horror 14-hour day sentence I can take comfort that malaria will be one thing that I can be safe from.
Awake the slumbering giant,