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On an “Off Day,” coffee matters

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Well, hell
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It was on of those “out of sorts” type of days. Nothing wrong. Just nothing sitting well.

I might want to go looking for something to blame it on, but there really isn’t anything; maybe it’s a bit of the “rainy days and Mondays always get me down” stuff. An off day is just that: Off.

But when an Off day is saddled with a cup of coffee that is just so off…well, hell. You might just as well stay under the covers and count timbits.

God knows all a man wants when he heads off to face the day to face Godknowswhat in the middle of Godknowswhere with Godknowswho, he wants to be packing: packing a good cup of coffee, with the boldness of John Wayne thundering down from the hills, both rifles blazing like a scene from “True Grit.”

I’m ready!

But no. Not around here. That cup of coffee don’t exist.

Instead, I gets a glare from the local future Democrat who looks just like I feel after I’ve taken a swig of that brew in the paper cop he hands me.

The temperature a few degrees cooler than the surface of the sun, and the taste that lies somewhere between “overly-boiled instant flavour crystals” and “new and improved artificial”…Godknowswhat.

His day is going about the same as mine: off. Out of sorts. Been there, done that. Ain’t no real tangible problem; just a piss poor cup of coffee in a nation that thinks its okay to feed piss poor coffee to gun owners.

Not the wisest choice.