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Where The Fuck Is Diane With My Fair-Trade Coffee?

Marla? Get in here. Where the fuck is Diane with my coffee? I sent her out 15 minutes ago for a large cup of fair-trade Ethiopian Dark Roast from the La Paz coffee shop. How hard could it be? You walk your ass to the corner, hand them my Utne Reader travel mug, plunk down the money, and pick up the coffee. Add a little soy milk and two natural-cane sugar packets, and you make sure the lid is tight. That's so simple, even Diane should be able to do it without fucking up.

Have a seat, Marla. We need to talk about the situation here. I don't ask for much, do I? All I need are a few comforts to make my workday start smoothly. You know this. When I walk into this office at 8 a.m., I'd better see these things on my desk: The New York Times, for a fair analysis of current events; the trades, to keep up with the competition; and, most importantly, my fucking coffee.

I want my staff working at 110 percent, and I want my coffee harvested by formerly indigent people making a decent living wage so they can feed their families, sustain their farms, and become sources for community development at a local level. What part of that is confusing? Let me repeat myself: I want a large cup of organochlorine-free, unbleached-filter-brewed, environmentally sound cocksucking coffee 10 minutes ago.

Christ, what's she doing? Flying to Ethiopia to purchase the beans from local farmers at a minimum price of $1.26 per pound herself? I'm glad someone is providing those farmers with technical assistance transitioning to organic farming methods, but that's not Diane's job. If I remember correctly, she works for me. And I need to be able to talk to our clients in a positive frame of mind. No one wants to talk about ecologically sensible office supplies with someone who can't keep his fucking eyes open. I do not need this shit when my acupuncturist is out of town.

And what's up with this radio station? It's sure as fuck not NPR. "Smooth jazz"? It may be smooth, but it's not jazz. If you want to listen to jazz, there's a great Coltrane retrospective on today. Or do you have something against expanding your fucking minds? You'd rather sit around like monkeys, listening to smooth jazz.

Do you even care what kind of shit is going down in the world? It's called Morning Edition. If I don't get some Carl fucking Kasell right now, I'm going to choke someone. Hold on. Change it right after this Terence Trent D'Arby song is done. I like this one.

And what was that stack of bills sitting in my mailbox this morning? Marla, do you think I have my home mail sent to my work address so I can open it in the conference room while gazing out at the swans? Marla? Do you care to venture a guess? Well, Marla, I will tell you: I have my personal mail sent here so that my personal assistant can personally assist me by fucking opening it. Get rid of this REI catalog. Get rid of this shit. Now, look at this Working Assets Long Distance bill. It hasn't been paid. What's the date on that Maya Angelou calendar? Look at the calendar, Marla. Do you even care about the McCain-Lieberman Climate Stewardship Act that I help support every time I call my brother in Seattle? Then let's get on the stick! Here, put this Ben & Jerry's coupon in my canvas tote over there.

Another thing: No one even touches the Mother Jones until it moves from my desk to the table in the waiting room. Last week, I was trying to find my goddamn Mother Jones, and where was it? Sitting on the toilet tank in the men's room. I had to have Diane run all the way out to the newsstand and buy me a brand-new copy that wasn't covered in particles of shit and piss.

After I'm done reading the Mother Jones, you can do whatever you the fuck you want with it—before you recycle it, that is.

Next item on the agenda: Thursday, I put some organic radishes in the refrigerator, and on Friday, they were gone. As if that weren't enough, yesterday someone tossed a salmon wrap and half a Fresh Samantha's Mango Mama. Are you aware that there are people starving in Brunei Darussalam? You don't throw out stuff that isn't yours. It's just common sense, or didn't they teach you that in school?

Remember that we're all in this together. We all have the same mission: bleach-free 40 percent post-consumer recycled bond in every copier in America. If we can't agree on that, then what are we doing here? I'm not asking, I'm telling: Think globally, get your fucking act together.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to call the shop about my Volvo.

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