Thursday, May 25, 2006

Canned Coffee Review

Living in Japan, I've gotten to experience the many joys of Canned Coffee. There is even a website out there devoted to "reviews" of various canned coffees.

...And since the elitist pig wont bother to print any of the 73 emails I sent him, I decided to write one myself! HaH! That'll show 'em. And soooo....


Dydo "Black"

This is angry coffee. Bitter, angry coffee. This coffee has serious issues. Ever since Black’s father ran off with that frothy, decaf cappuccino, well, he’s never been the same. This coffee is full of pent up aggression and unresolved angst. You can always find a can of coffee like this pushing other, smaller cans down on the playground and stealing their lunch money. Oh, sure, that’s how it all starts. A little harmless “fun.” Pretty soon, though, he’s a thug enforcer for some two-bit, petty hood, shaking down old men and scared kids for the chump change he calls “protection money.”

Years later, he’s a dried up, empty shell of a can. Life has been a dark road of bad choices and worse consequences. No friends, no family, no one who give a tinker’s damn about you except the old half-blind Eurasian hooker who only hangs out with you because your own self-pity and loneliness inevitably translate into free smokes, the occasional highball glass full of cheap rotgut Folgers, and maybe a quick pop of your top in the dank confines of some corner in the storeroom of a run-down, has-been coffee bar on the backside of nowhere.

This coffee isn’t just angry, it’s mean. I toss back a slug of the viscous, black liquid, and it assaults my tongue like the back-handed “love” of an abusive spouse. A haze falls before my eyes, and I’m transported, I can see it all, like I was standing there when it happened. The charcoal taste lingers, coats, corrodes, like the time he clamped on to the old shopkeeper’s tongue with a pair of grimy, rusty vice grips. And pulled. Pulled until the tongue of the poor sap who’d come up short on a payment to Lenny the loan shark was stretched out like the red carpet for a Hollywood premier day. Black takes a long slow drag on a cheap, hand-rolled cigarette, and then slowly rubs the burning stub into a crumbled ash against the shopkeeper’s savaged taste buds.

I suddenly snap back to reality, much like the old man’s tongue snapped back into his mouth after the vice grips were removed.

This coffee leaves a bitter aftertaste, a lingering calling card that promises more violence if its demands aren’t met. I find myself laughing an empty, mirthless laugh. I take another long, slow look at this thug, this violent punk of a coffee, and with a negligent flick of my wrist, dump the half-empty can into the trash. I walk away feeling abused, violated, and somehow even…well…dirty.

Then, from somewhere behind me, I can almost swear I hear a voice filled with the deepest sarcasm and bitter resignation, tinged with just the barest hint of childish petulance call out, “Go ahead. Leave. That’s what they all do. You’re no different.”

Somehow, I can’t seem to dredge up any pity for the little bastard.

None. None at all.