A word about people who buy Frappuccino

It gets old quickly making Frappuccino for Starbucks customers. Back in the day, being a barista at Starbucks actually meant being a barista. There was an art to pulling the perfect shot of espresso with a good frothy crema and decent caramel body. Steaming milk in just the right way to make cappuccino foam required steam control, but these days Starbucks has switched over all of its espresso operations from shots to milk to the latest Americanized DoltaTron Millenium Expresso-Matic (that's a pun, by the way--on 'espresso,' in case you missed it). Essentially, any burnout on hard club drugs can operate this thing. Just push the proper button according to how many dainty coffee mugs are portrayed; e.g. the button for an automatic doppio (2 shots) is indicated by two coffee mugs. Voila! With such ease, Angsty Agnes can move on to much more important pursuits: Frappuccino slinging.

And indeed, Starbucks baristas are no longer baristas, they are Frappuccino slingers. It consumes me to consider what sort of sordid, wretched lives these folks are leading that makes buying their daily regiment of 1,000 Calorie+ sugar slush the most momentous occassion of their routine. Middle-aged women with flab sneaking up on them like nuclear ooze ponder the extensive menu with pathetic delight. Their faces shine aglow at the possibilities: Mocha Frappuccino, Mocha Coconut Frappuccino, Chocolate Coconut Creme Frappuccino, Rasberry Caramel Creme Frappuccino with extra Whip, Whippy Creme Caramel Chocolate Creme de Menthe Malt Frappuccino, etc. Sorority girls and pre-freshmen in town for orientation lay down a seemingly endless supply of Daddy Suckerbucks to fund their amusement in something so vacuous. Cheap thrills, endless frills. They pretend to be thirsty: "better make it Super Duper Sized--it's hot outside for February!" TRY WATER, COW! They place their order with meticulousness and snappy efficiency biting their lips at the thought that bad news might be coming their way. In fact--true story--recently these two witch ladies came in and ordered their daily whimsy whips (two Grande Caramel Frappuccini), twitching with excitement. I informed them with the appropriate caution that our whipped cream was, by a fluke, unavailable. They went absolutely ballistic, booing and hissing and flailing their arms about appalled that their precious whippped cream--their raison d'etre--would not be towering atop their ba-ba's. All I could do was shrug and apologize. I rolled my eyes and wanted to drop kick them. Depsite their being underscored, the weasles were waiting for me at the counter when I turned around with their prizes. It freaked me out. As with everybody who orders Frappuccino, their straws were out and ready and they looked like Rover and Fifi about to be tossed a Milkbone. Their sucking tubes were already cocked so they could be readily plunged through the feedhole on top of the lid as soon as the plastic hit the counter.

This is one story among many. I'm sure I'll rant about it some other time--it's too assinine to just ignore. Besides, I haven't talked about the gay guys who insist on the most complex variations and the frat boy types who don't know what they're getting into ordering this junk. Somebody's got to do something. Somebody's got to inform these folks how pathetic they are. It'd be inhumane not to.


Chanson du jour: Innocence Mission, Snow