I’m working at a client site four days a week. The upside is that the automatic coffee machine out here makes fantastic mochaccinos, which forms a double mystery. Firstly, I don’t drink mochaccinos. It is true that I have friends who claim they are not gay and yet still drink mochaccinos, so I know what a mochacinno is, per se, but I personally have never been able to utter the ‘m’ word in front of a live barrista. Secondly, I’m usually too much of a coffee snob to get within 10 feet of an automatic coffee machine. Sure this one has fresh beans visible in a hopper, so at least it’s not one of those godawful cartrige-type machines, but it’s still an evil robotic coffee raping device (probably recently beamed down from the planet Nescafe on a mission to destroy all good coffee).
So how did this mystery of mysteries come about? I think it was an unfortunate juxtaposition of over-tiredness from too much Forza the night before, and a craving for caffeinated sugary beverages. The tiredness caused me to require a coffee, while at the same time causing my blurred vision to read Mochaccino as I.V. Short Black (although I still suspect that the evil robotic coffee raping device used its chameleon outer skin to change the button text just before I pressed it). Anyway, the result was a steaming cup of
cold sick mochaccino.
So yeah, I drink mochaccino from an automatic coffee machine these days. I keep checking to see if I’m sprouting a mullet, and desperately try to avoid driving into a random trailer park on the way home, but so far everything seems to be working out OK.