Coffee ranks in my mind as one of the most evil and heinous of all consumables hoisted upon humanity. It is a monster. According to statista.com, worldwide coffee will generate in sales at stores, restaurants, and bars over $473 billion in revenue in 2025. That is more than the GDP of the country of Bangladesh, which has the 34th highest of all nations in the world according to the International Monetary Fund.
But that’s not the reason I despise coffee. I dislike it because it gives me seizures. Going back in time, I had my first cup of coffee when I was only 14 years old. My father and I had been camping on the Buffalo River in Arkansas. I woke up to 18 degree Fahrenheit temperatures. Dad had coffee percolating on the camp stove. I asked him to pour me a cup. Oh, that was good.
The next day, as we were getting ready for church, I asked my mother for a cup of coffee. It tasted like how I imagine running my tongue over the ground in a barnyard would taste. I added sugar. Nope. I added cream. Nope. I added sugar and cream. No again. I vowed to never drink the mephistophelean concoction again.
For the most part, I have held true to this commitment. I do typically have a hot chocolate with cinnamon and honey each day. Once when I ordered the drink from one of those drive-thru coffee shops dotting the nation, they mistakenly gave me a mocha something or other. I took a sip and nearly caused a 30-car pileup. My hands started shaking. I squeezed my eyes shut until not even light could penetrate. If I had been wearing an adult diaper I probably would have had an embarrassing bowel evacuation.
Another time, my boss offered to go to the drive-thru coffee shop and pick up requests. I, of course, ordered a large hot chocolate with cinnamon and honey. When she brought it back, we all thanked her and took our beverages of choice. During a presentation I was giving to the department, I took a sip. Linda Blair’s performance in The Exorcist had nothing on me. I threw myself backwards against the whiteboard and started making retching sounds that had one co-worker running for the bathroom.
Even with this aversion to the liquid fecal matter, I am a glutton for punishment. The spousal unit LOVES her coffee. When she kisses me in the morning, I feel shame that I equate the taste of her lips with drinking from a 50-year-old ashtray used by a cancer-ridden smoker of two packs a day. But hey, she lets me stay around. Even though I do not like coffee.
Take care.
