Mmm, good morning, blags. It’s a lovely day in the city that I call home. The trees outside are in full bloom now and are aglow with refracted sunlight. It gets a man in the right mind to stop and consider the little things.
And so I did, while making my coffee.
Keurig owners, like myself, are a special kind of evil. Coffee wasn’t that hard to make before, and didn’t require chucking a little cup that will survive on this planet far longer than we possibly could into a trash can every time we need our fix. The Keurig coffee maker is for the kind of person who’s “over” things like automated robot vacuum cleaners and central air. We don’t appreciate things like Blu-ray or DVRs, or having phones that can provide us with valuable information, like how old any celebrity in the world is, or how ugly my face is based on a highly complex ugly-face matrix (I got a 57/100). I saw a commercial for a car that parallel parks itself. Do you know what I did? I didn’t give a shit.
So, why? Clearly that stuff is all wonderful and incredible, yes, but fuck it. Our generation’s puberty was fueled by Go-Gurt — we need something more. We want all that convenience mashed up and crammed into a clean little container, blasted with hot water, then sloshed down our dumb maws. We want convenience distilled into a mood-enhancing, sleep-punching drug. And we want it all in as close to one-step as possible. Personally, I facilitate this ideal by pouring my soy creamer (because I’m an asshole) into the mug before brewing, that way I don’t have to expel valuable time and energy into stirring anything or washing a spoon, which takes almost forever.
So, a bit of background research: Keurig is a technologically and culturally advanced European company based in Swede… no, Denma… Hmm … Norway? Somewhere in Germany? Belgium?! Oh, no, here it is: Reading, Massachusetts. Well fuck me, I did not know that! It’s amazing how easily tricked I am by passive, ethnically deceptive branding. Give something a mildly difficult-to-pronounce name, and I immediately assume it was imported to the U.S., just for me.
Having now placed the Keurig properly on my spectrum of lustful epicurean overindulgence/spartan self-denial (it’s near the epicurean end, along with most other things that aren’t flossing), I’ll get down to it: the moment of capital T truth.
In one singular moment, the Keurig effortlessly wrapped all of life’s greater concepts — not bits and pieces, but vast, meaty chunks of the human condition — into a wondrous metaphor. Life, death and rebirth, all represented by a mechanical process that was effecting my cup of coffee. The fresh K-cup sacrificed its body like a spawning salmon, punctured and sapped of life in an effort to give birth to its offspring, only to be subsequently discarded, its purpose for existence complete.
OK, to be honest, I didn’t see any of that. But what I did see was just as true, and actually authentic: The Keurig splurging out the last bits of ground up bean dregs into my cup served as both a foreshadowing and a stern warning. Why, you ask? Because watching a Keurig brew is like watching a robot have black-coffee diarrhea. Thanks for reading.