What's worse, the peppy "barista" on the other side of the counter actually understands this nonsense. Wow, this world we live in is clearly off its collective rocker.
In the old days folks were satisfied to keep a small Mr. Coffee coffee maker in their office. A scoop of Maxwell House, a splash of water, and poof, a cup of foul-smelling mud. You didn't care what it tasted like, it only mattered that this go-go juice gave you the fortitude to make it through your incessant day without drooling all over your keyboard or hanging yourself from the fluorescent light fixtures. But today, I witnessed with my own two eyes a new and disturbing trend in utter java-ocity, the personal espresso shrine. In a co-worker's office, sitting on a sturdy brass and polished chrome table, was a coffee maker the size of a 1978 Yugo. This behemoth was outfitted with more plumbing lines, steam towers, gauges, dials, and buttons than the control room at the downtown power plant. What's next?