The Coffee Shop

Anyone who knows Mr. C knows that he is rather partial to a good old fashioned strong coffee. Anyway, during my lunchbreak I sometimes venture to a nice little kiosk run by some local fella and get myself a nice strong brew (albeit it in a plastic cup).

Today I took an ultra late lunch (like 5pm late!) but said kiosk was closed so I had to go to Coffee Fucking Republic! Well I never. Mr. C has never witnessed so much pretence since the time he visited the dingy Starbucks in Charing Cross. There they all were, middle class fucking arsewipes giving it the uber-Marxist "we're all working class now" bollocks whilst going berserk on a credit card given to them by the middle class cunt parents that decided to shit on the world in one hit by combining their cuntish fucking gene pools. What the fucking fuck?

Even more intriguing is the array of ultra expensive cream and shit they have on said coffee (I mean more cream than you could ever hope to see on RedTube). You pay an extra 3 quid for that. Of course, there's heaps of do-gooder lefty shit they could do with that 3 quid (charity? You vain cunts), not to mention starting a savings account (or rather sticking it up their arses sideways, preferrably having wrapped barbed wire around the coins first).

So, having bored me to death with your OTT, super loud conversation that I can hear all the way from table 3 about how you were "considering suicide" over some fucking break up or other, how does it feel to know that your thick fucking anarcho-commie self is feeding the corporate beast you profess to hate? I mean I don't give a fuck, I like capitalism. But do you have to make it so fucking easy for me to loathe you, wishing you'd just eat shit and die?

Let's just agree that you agree with me when I say you're a hypocritical fuckwad, OK? That was some fucking coffee...

"Peace man"...