It’s interesting to me that 47 of our States have come to a general consensus as to the taste and objective of coffee, but a remaining 3 have rallied together in defiance proclaiming, “Our coffee shall not be flavorful, nor shall it energize anyone in the slightest!”
And I can’t remember your coffee, North Dakota, but you’re guilty by association.
As I write this, I’m sipping at 30,000 feet. I was wide-awake when I ordered it, but I wanted one last good taste before landing in the Big Sky Country. And this Dixie Cup of Joe was probably brewed 15 hours ago, but it seems like Juan Valdez’s personal stash compared to the stuff they sling from Yellowstone to Mount Rushmore.
If there is one thing you should know about our tenor, Rob, it’s that he knows a lot of 90s rap songs word-for-word. If there are two things you should know about Rob, it’s that he knows a lot of 90s rap songs word-for-word and he is NOT A MORNING PERSON. Rob is already peculiar in that his singing voice is a pure, angelic tenor while his speaking voice is akin to a football coach with laryngitis. Some mornings, his demeanor is too. It isn’t out of the ordinary for Home Free to wake at the crack of dawn to appear on radio stations, catch flights, or “edutain” students. If we’re up at 5am, by 5:15 Rob needs a large coffee and a hug.
Rob and I have begun affectionately referring to the coffee in SD, MT, and WY as “diaper coffee” as it tastes like it very well may have been filtered through a diaper. And before you ask how we know what a diaper tastes like, let’s just say that we all made decisions in college that we later regretted. I’m of course kidding. About the college thing. Not the coffee. Totally diapery. But a clean diaper. At least there’s that.
And so we prepare for the better part of a month in this region. We brace ourselves for many a groggy morning chock-full of icky faces and cranky Rob. And who’s to blame? Well, since the surrounding states seem to have fine coffee, the clear-cut culprit is Alberta, Canada. Therefore, I blame Nickelback.
Shame on you, Nickelback, for soiling our tastebuds AND our eardrums.
And that’s what burns my brisket.