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15 august 2000 |
32 horrifying ounces So I'm in Worcester's Java Hut, which is a family-owned coffeehouse with lots of character and poetical comfort. I'm at the counter placing my order, when I look up and see a sign for the house special. For a moment, I thought, "wow. That would be a cool tub o' glug for my reviews page! As I read further, however, I think "perhaps not". You decide:
Now, if you've been reading life and stuff for any time at all, you know how much I love coffee. It doesn't take too much grog to get me all jazzy. In fact, one of those cereal-bowl-sized slurp caverns makes me downright shaky. (I've been nursing one for about two hours now, and my right arm is about to fly into the Subway next door. Eegh.) And I'm wondering to myself, perhaps we're getting carried away. I anxiously take another sip out of my mocha tub and ponder further as I wait for my heart to quit palpitating. America would be unAmerican unless absolutely everything had the option to super-size. French fries, soft drinks, four-wheel-drive vehicles, homes, boobs and eyelashes. Bigger! Thicker! More! Free refills! I quickly glance upward at the freaked-out cartoon guy on the PSYCHO BLAST sign, fight the desire to pull ten bucks out of my wallet, sneak another glance, resist the mouth-watering keg of caffienated horror, and shake some more like dt's in front of an Irish pub. Questions race (and I do mean "race") through my mind. Would I live long enough to even write the review? Would my pancreas sieze up and develop full-on diabetes as I reach the bottom of the goody-laden brew? How high CAN I jump? Let's see! Backflips backflips backflips! Speedy Gonzales, eat my dust! Ondele, ondele, yee-ha! So I'm sitting next to my friend Paul, and he's like, "don't even think about it. You're peppy enough. Demonstrate self-control." And he's right. I start doing some of that Zen visualization stuff I read about in some magazine awhile back. Not that I know anything about Zen, so I just start visualizing...um...stuff. Visions of my kidneys danced in my head like quivering psycho-blasted, two-legged, bug-eyed beans. Nooooo, Kim! Don't do it! They were like two little red Mr. Potato Heads, only squishy and nervous. I take a deep breath, arise from my seat, and approach the counter with wallet in hand. I feel a super-sized sense of patriotism, imagine Uncle Sam with one finger pointed directly at me, and his other hand wrapped around the thirty-two horrifying ounces as he jumps out of the poster, kicking his heels and screaming at the top of his lungs, I WANT YOU , as he runs down the street and tries to dance with a mailbox. I take one final glance at Captain Psycho Blast. A Ford Expedition drives by the coffeehouse window. The Subway next door will double the ham and throw in an extra bag of Doritos for fifty cents. Someone at the next table is kvetching about what a wussy last night's "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" contestant is for taking the half-million instead of trying for the whole bag of rocks. I could swear the bartender last night had implants. My mascara makes too many promises --- won't super-luscious, ultra-thick lashes impair my vision? It's like looking through spiders! When is too much enough and enough becomes too much? I give the nice lady across the counter two bucks for some bottled water. It turns out that Alison and Phil have split a Psycho Blast, so I stop by their table for a chat. Phil is still yawning. I assume he got all the ice cream and Torani. Alison, however, is another story. She complains of heart palpitations, the shakes, inability to concentrate, is talking too fast for me to get this all down, giggling, and has this unusual piercing gaze. Alison is feeling simultaneously patriotic and nauseated tonight, as I sip my water and wonder if there might actually be something to that Zen stuff. Tonight, I honor my limits, knowing that it is my civic duty to deny them. |