Time for a Rerun

And no, I don't mean the guy from"'What's Happening?" I'm simply too swamped to devote the time necessary to deliver a well-crafted blog entry today. Instead I bring you one from the archives:

I Love My French Press


As the title implies, I love my French Press. It's not a full size carafe, but instead some genius decided to make a travel-mug French Press! (and yes, I feel the need to capitalize both French and Press) What this means is that I can now drink snobbish coffee while I drive! At work I can lord over my lowly peasant co-workers as they drink their Maxwell House 50/50 blend of crap and crap! I chuckle to myself as I enjoy the fully caffeinated so-brown-it's-almost-black elixir contained in my hard plastic feat of modern engineering. Like a King I raise the pneumatic chair in my cube as high as it can be raised and look down on the masses gathered about admiring my superior coffee. They shuffle their feet and mutter to one another, or to themselves, looking first at my French Press with longing, their gaze then returning to whatever sludge is contained in their sad comic emblazoned mugs or, heaven forbid, their styrofoam cups.

My French Press has granted me the status of "Interesting and/or Mysterious" and leads people to believe my life is fascinating and makes them wonder what I do outside of work that would allow me to possess such an item. I keep my after work activities secret. When asked "So what did you do last night?" I smile, gaze off into the distance and reply "Oh, nothing really."I always make sure to empty the grounds from my French Press into the trash can in my cube. Not only does this make my cube smell like an exotic coffee house, but the coarse grounds are sure to attract the curiosity and wonder of the cleaning lady. I'll only wash my French Press when the kitchenette is full. I make sure to wash it both gently and carefully, making sure the screen isn't clogged by the smallest particle and shines in the pale flourescent light, glinting like the treasure it is. I dry it carefully, reverently and reassemble it with gentle and deft twists of my wrists. I leave the kitchenette cradling my French Press like a puppy, walking slowly and surely back to my cube where I place it on display yet out of reach. When I hate my job I'll turn and look at it, already wishing it was the next morning so I could refill it, and in so doing refill myself as well.

I love my French Press....


M. PotPie