Medicinal Latte (Noun) – A type of drink one orders when they desperately need caffeine topped with six kinds of sugar. As implied by the term ‘medicinal’ these concoctions should be used in moderation. They’re habit forming, expensive, and when consumed in excess they may lead to pretension and goatees. They’re best reserved for moments when you’re so fully exhausted that paying $4 to have a pierced pseudo-intellectual spray whip cream on perfectly good coffee seems logical. (See also: medicinal liquor, recuperative beer)
I’ve been on the road seemingly forever and thus unable (unwilling? uncaring? unmotivated?) to post. For those who’ve noticed my absence… I was not killed by a tractor or a badly felled tree. Thanks for asking.
Today I was exhausted to the core. I stopped to get a medicinal latte. Usually they ask your name so they know to whom the drink must be delivered. Then they carry on like making an espresso is rocket science and you get a chance to relax and jack into the wifi.
This time they nodded and sent me off like my name didn’t matter. How would they recognize me when it was done? Who cares! I was so tired it didn’t seem relevant.
I waded through a throng of hipsters staring at their iPads and teenage proto-hipsters mainlining smartphones, found an empty chair (nicely stuffed!), dropped my little pile of “food” on a table, and slumped back like I’d been shot. I zoned out a bit and apparently fell asleep.
When I came to the drink was right next to me. Awesome!
Then I noticed the clue on the receipt.
The lamest superhero ever. Even aquaman can talk to fish. What the hell can “beard man” do?
There you have it, I’m officially a superhero… the lamest one ever.
In a just world I’d get a superhero theme song like this:
HaHAHaHa. Thought you got eaten by a bear or something.
Beardman fears no bear. 🙂
I’ve got your theme song right here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUqorX6-uW0
Play it to Mrs Curmudgeon. No need to thank me.
You win, because it wasn’t Starbucks, and they didn’t even name me, but BTDT.
Back in the waning days of the last Millennium (1996, actually) I went back up North for my Parents’ 50th Anniversary celebration. I flew up on a red-eye, rented a car, and made the Celebration. As the Eldest Son, I was morally obligated to be there.
I made the mistake of crashing out at my middle Brother’s place overnight, and got up the next morning to leave (at Zero-dark hundred). That was when I found out that he and his wife didn’t do Coffee.
I don’t function without my coffee, but I made it. I was on a tight schedule, so I drove the 65 or so miles back to the airport nonstop and turned my rental car in. I then got into the terminal and hit a Caribou Coffee shop. I walked up to the counter, and ordered two expresso shots in one cup, and an ice cube. Then I thought about it, and ordered a second two expresso shots in one cup, without an ice cube.
I threw the cube into the first one and slammed it, took the second one, and paid for it all.
Relief!
The counter guy (IDK if they were officially “Baristas” that far back or not.) looked at me and asked if I was all right.
My reply was “I am now!”
I didn’t get a Superhero name, though.
That reminds me of a similar story.
Many moons ago I was working the graveyard shift at a convenience store in the middle of nowhere. The main point of the place was, as far as I could tell, was to provide fuel for people who were (for whatever reason) avoiding the nearby toll highway. (It was also an ideal location and time slot to get shot in a botched robbery that yielded $20 and a handful of stale Twinkles. I was livin’ the dream.)
Around 3:00 am the freaks came out. One night a long haul trucker screeched to a stop out front. Charging in the door like the devil was after him, he veered for the coffee. That rig at that hour meant that he was probably too broke to pay the tolls and (trust me on this) his truck probably had bad brakes and a weight overload.
He lined up four coffee cups and filled them each. (The coffee was disgusting off brand swill but I kept it hot and fresh.) Just like you, he dumped an ice cube in each cup… and indeed he swigged all four 12 ounce coffees like a frat boy at a kegger.
“Aaackk…” he grimaced. “Your coffee tastes like shit.”
“Yep,” I agreed. “most people figure that out on the first cup.”
“Well it’s good enough. It’ll keep me going another 6 hours.”
“How many hours left on your logbook?” I asked.
He laughed, slapped down a five, and without waiting for change, ran out the door.
Remember this if you ever cut off a big rig!
They mistook you for Chuck Norris? Happens to me all the time. Due to the beard, of course.
At least it wasn’t “Neck Beard Man”.
Duh. Beard Man can custom modify a wood-splitter, for one…
Holy shit! That’s my super power. I love it.
If Julie had anything to do with it, the ticket would say “Onion Breath”…
}:-]
Nice!
Beadman intimidates by his mere appearance – as in crawling out of the woods and coming into town twice a year. Beardman looks smarter than the rest of the world because he can stroke his beard in contemplation (as opposed to that pretentious Pipeman) while deciding whether or not to say something socially inappropriate. Beardman relaxes while listening to the rest of the male population whine about how hard it is to find a good razor, how expensive razors are, and how horribly their aftershave stings.
Beardman is a power to be reckoned with.
stay safe.
Trying to think of my super-hero name when the receipt would call me “bald, fat, old, deaf, cheap white guy”. Nothing comes to mind.
Robert, I’m pretty sure that’s MY super hero name.
When they ask me for my name, I always say Tiberius.
BeardMan theme song has to be to the tune of “Birdland”, particularly the Manhattan Transfer version.
Welcome to the club. We may not have much in the way of powers but we make up for that in sheer numbers.
Actually it all comes down to the desription you gave of the cliental. You were 1. Male 2. Not a Hipster (boy) and 3. had a beard. I could’ve picked you out with that descrption.