I woke up this morning determined to finally put the coffee maker back together and brew myself a nice cuppa rather than walking over to Dunkies. Unfortunately, it soon became clear that the decanter was missing, either not having been packed, or having been accidentally thrown out during the move. So I figured I’d go to Target and try to get a replacement decanter. A few minutes into my trip, some dumb cunt driving on a side street decided to forego the whole “stop the car and look before you merge onto fucking Main Street” thing, and nearly smashed into my car. I slammed the horn and the brakes and swerved around her, feeling the car shudder and shake. As I glared at her in the rearview, I could feel my eyes change from green to red. Tiny horns began to sprout up from my skull. I tried to give her the finger, but my right hand had been replaced by a large block of stone Ã la Hellboy. Seeing this, she freaked and turned down another side street. I pulled over to survey the damage, and various passersby looked on with terror and amusement as I circled the car, my dagger-tipped tail ripping through my jeans. It turned out there was no damage; the shaking I felt had just been the ABS kicking in. Fine. However, in my bedeviled state, I was pretty furious that my assailant had left the scene of the crime, and I got back into the car all IM’A FIND THAT BITCH, and remained in that mode for about two seconds before I remembered: I still haven’t had any coffee!
So I put my plans for bloody, bloody revenge on hold and continued on to Target. I stood in front of the coffeemakers, noting that the replacement decanters were half the price of the cheapest coffeemakers, and didn’t even look like they would fit my machine. Should I just buy a new machine? I was deep in thought when a middle-aged guy wheeled his cart into the aisle and started mumbling to himself thusly: “Mr. Coffee…twelve cup…Mr. Coffee…” I was already on the verge of tears from my near-accident, and now I had to make a Very Important Decision with a mumbler standing next to me. THE WHOLE WORLD HAS GONE MAD!, I declared in my mind, just as Mr. Coffee turned to me and said, “I have this machine! It’s great!”
What followed was a long and in-depth conversation about a particular model of coffeemaker which this man felt was superior in every way. He described its various features, explained how I should clean it before use and periodically thereafter (with vinegar), and peered at me with the wide round eyes of someone who is clearly a bit cracked. I quickly relaxed, because I have great affection for the slightly insane, and also because he was guiding me through this process like the guardian angel of caffeine that I so sorely needed. He already had this model, you see, but was buying a second one for his other home. It made a great cup of coffee, he said. “Ok, you’ve convinced me,” I said, reaching for a box. “NO! THAT’S THE WRONG ONE! THAT ONE COSTS MORE!” he cried, kneeling down and resuming his mr. coffee twelve cup twenty dollar mumbling. He located the correct box and handed it to me, saying, “It’s this one, honey,” and we parted ways, two lost souls who had managed to find salvation for $19.99.