there comes a time in a man’s life when he is asked to serve as barista, for a crowd of 250, with a wobbly home espresso machine capable of producing roughly one beverage every 90 seconds.
he can either wet his pants, or he can start pulling shots. this blog will let you know what how this crushing moral dilemma plays itself out.
UPDATE: he can either curl up in the fetal position with a fresca, or he can pull shots.
VITAL UPDATE: he can either pet a furby while sobbing softly, or he can pull shots.
STILL MORE PERSPECTIVE: also, he can pop in an old enya cassette. or, he can pull shots.
OR: he can hula hoop. with his sister. or else he can start pulling shots!
FINAL UPDATE: after much internal nausea and even some faux wretching, this blog toted its wobbly machine to the aforementioned gig and proceeded to pull shots. rows and rows of shots, toscano plopping happily into porcelain, the dusty-fine grounds mixing with the feverish oils on our bloghands and settling into a sort of all-night cologne. the machine groaning, the din drilling tin wires into our inner ear, the drain tube trickling, the ankles pulsating, the dry ice burning, the spirits rising as the crowd begins to thin and then falling because, “oh no, they’re gone.”
which is when a seersucker unicorn leapt through the room, lapped some espresso from some lady’s hand, and then we turned and gave our furby a little pet. sob.