A coffeeshop without wifi
“What’s the wifi password here?” I asked, after I bought a cup of coffee sourced from a Guatemalan guy named Jose Miguel, who looked after each bean like it was his son.
“We don’t have wifi,” the barista said.
“What’s the point of this place existing?” I asked. “People just come here to drink coffee?”
“Yes,” he said, without any sarcasm in his voice.
“Cool,” I said. “I’ll just sit here and drink my coffee.”
I sat in front of the barista and drank my coffee. When I was done, I shouted “Worldstar!” and slammed my cup on the tile floor. It shattered, but only into two pieces. I was disappointed.
“Bro, you’ve gotta clean that up,” the barista said.
“I don’t have to do anything,” I said. “This coffeeshop doesn’t have wifi. That’s like a strip club not having a stripper pole, or a Barnes & Noble not having a homeless man masturbating in the bathroom.”
“Since when do all Barnes & Nobles have homeless men masturbating in the bathroom?”
“I don’t know, it happened once when I was in New York.”
“Let me get you another cup of coffee,” he said. “This one’s on the house. It’ll give you another 10 minutes to sit there with your coffee and yourself.”
“IS THIS HELL?” I shouted in the baristas face, his horns just then becoming visible.
