“My coffee gets increasingly better the more I drink and the closer I come to the bottom of the cup, where all the sugar is. I wonder if life is the same way as we approach the end.”

“I drink coffee like a civilized man—alone in a cave, wearing a loincloth, and grunting in frustration because my club is too thick to fit in my cup to stir in the sugar.”

“Do you find it erotic how my pants bulge in the crotch, where I keep my coffee cup?”

“I put my heart in a paper cup, so she’d be more likely to drink it up.”

“Her name was Rebecca. Or at least that’s what her nametag said. She was making my coffee at Starbucks as I admired how her green Starbucks apron matched her bright green eyes. She had hair the color of coffee with a hint of cream in it. I was trying to act casual and not make it seem like I came in here only to see her. The truth is, I hate coffee. That’s not entirely true. I do like a hint of coffee in my cup of sugar.”

“The bottom of a cup of coffee is not as good as the bottom of her body—which is actually in the middle of her body.”

“I would offer to meet up for some coffee, but I don’t drink coffee. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to burden you with my personal problems. It’s just that I haven’t been the same since the Folgers fiasco of ‘04.”