What's All This Venti Shit?

I went downstairs this morning, refillable mug in hand, to get my daily coffee.  I waited patiently in line while the usual jack-offs ordered their triple-soy caramel macchiatos ("just two pumps, please") in front of me, then calmly handed them my mug. 

"Refill, please."

"Sorry, sir, we're out of coffee."

¿qué?

"But," I said, gesturing to the hundreds of bags of Sumatra and Yukon Blend lining the walls, "you're surrounded by coffee."

"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't have any right now.  Come back later."

Let me check something...

Yep, says coffee right there on the sign.

Here's the deal:  I put up with your pretentious sizes (since when does "small" = "tall"), the homeless people aspiring novelists who take all the good chairs, and the fact that you don't carry those awesome maple-nut scones anymore (at least not in my neighborhood...is it the trans-fats?)  And I don't lament the demise of the independent local cafe's that your predatory expansion has caused. 

Why?  Because I love your damn coffee. I don't do crack...I do Cafe Verona.  It's because of you that I can never again drink the swill that squirts out of the machine in our break-room.  If you served it in gallon-sized buckets then that's what I'd order.

So if there's one thing you should be doing at all times, it's brewing coffee.  It's the easiest thing you do!  And there's ten of you behind the counter!  Stop rearranging the bagels and start grinding some damn beans.

I'll be standing right here.