Why drinking Bullettproof coffee makes you an ASSHOLE
One would think that within the hierarchy of things which make people absolutely unbearable to be around, that how they choose to prepare their coffee would not be one of them.
I mean come on, how trivial of a thing is this to worry about? I never got mad when my aunt Beatrice used 8 packets of Sweet and Low, YEARS after the heavenly Splenda was introduced.
But for some reason, simply adding a big ole spoonful of grass fed, hormone free, free range, hippie tear watered butter, instantly elevates someone to a level of asshole only rivaled by seeing someone double park in a crowded parking lot in their 1997 shit grey Cadillac.
But why? Why is it that we could be having a perfectly enjoyable conversation with someone, with no problems side stepping minor disagreements here and there; but then, those five fateful words can send it all crashing down? “Man, I love Bullettproof coffee.”
Picture this scenario. You have a new friend, it could be a date, first, second, maybe even the magical third. Or this is simply a new acquaintance from the gym, or yoga class. Or hell, maybe it’s your mom or dad. For this story, we will call it a first date.
So, the two of you are sitting at a nice little outdoor coffee joint. Birds are chirpin, the sun is shinin just enough, and some smelly dude is playing some sort of weird instrument a block away. Heavenly.
The place is a little busy, so you haven’t had a chance to order yet. But the waiter is nice enough to come by and let you know that he would get to you as soon as he could. So that’s cool.
So you have had a few minutes to really kick the encounter off, and get things going on the right foot.
But finally, the waiter makes it to your little two-person iron table, with equally uncomfortable iron chairs which you are supposed to love because they were clearly painted by a child, or the owners degenerate brother. And now it’s time to order.
So, you order some regular ass shit, like a fucking adult. Some coffee, maybe black, maybe cream and sugar. Maybe even some fancy French bullshit served in a completely unsatisfying baby mug. And some little pastry nonsense that being the elevated calorie counting baller that you are, you know you can fit into your day and still maintain that rippling physique.
No. Fucking. Problem.
Then it’s time for Jonny Dangerous to order… Coffee, cool. Bacon, hell ya, Merica. A fruit bowl. Questionable, but ok.
And then, out of nowhere, he hits you with the death ray…
“So, uh, what kind of butter do you guys use? Is it grass fed? Because it’s really important for it to be grass fed.”
The waiter is taken aback. He stumbles with a few nonsensical words, clearly far removed from this degenerate subculture. After a few moments and a couple insistence’s upon finding out how the cows spent their days he says that he will go find out and will be right back.
Now, things have already come to a place where few of us ever hope to find ourselves. The eternal debate of rather or not Hell is a real place can end right then and there because I tell you what Patricia, you are there.
But this is just the beginning. If you don’t turn and run right this very second, things are just going to get immeasurably worse. But shock has already set in. You are quite literally frozen in your chair. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Barely capable of sustaining the shallowest of breaths capable of keeping your meat vessel alive, which at this point, you are not sure you even want to do.
So, the waiter leaves, with a hefty amount of stress added to his already shitty day. And Billy Idol turns to you with the most annoyed, haughty face you have ever seen and say’s “can you believe that guy?”
You ever so slightly shake your head no, with your jaw hanging damn near all the way to the floor. Now, a normal person would pick up on your glaring non-verbal cues, that something isn’t right here. But Michigan Avenue doesn’t live in that world. He is dead focused. Like a laser always set to full douche bag.
So, he continues… “I just don’t understand how someone could NOT know what kind of butter their restaurant serves. It just blows my mind that, so few people care about their health. Did you know that non-grass-fed butter can contain up to 29,000 chemicals, and that over half of them have been directly linked to cancer and autism? AND, your body holds onto fat when you consume too many of them, so it’s like a double whammy to your health?!”
Still you sit, jaw open, eyes dead, heart, barely beating, with one lonely tear slowly sliding down your ghostly white cheek. Your purse is hanging from the side of your dark ages torture device of a chair, and you have somehow mustered the strength to move a few fingers to try to fish your phone out. But it is no use. It is just out of reach. Those three numbers might as well be miles away.
So, he continues. “Ya, I made the mistake early on of just using whatever butter was around in my Bullettproof coffee, but man, it makes a world of difference. You just don’t feel as alive you know? It’s like when its grass fed, the energy from that happy, free cow gets carried over to you, and you get a little bit of their life essence with ever cup. It’s almost magical man.”
You have managed to close your mouth, but a moderate portion of your tongue didn’t quite make it back into your mouth. And you are now biting down on it with the force of an alligator, partially because you lack basic motor function and partially because that steady stream of warm blood gushing steadily out of it is the only thing you have to reassure yourself that yes, you are still alive. So, you bite down harder, and harder, so that you will know the very second that you finally cross over, into true oblivion.
Just at the moment when you were sure you were about to sever your fleshy life line right off, the haggard waiter hobbles back over to your table, with a look of fear, and defeat.
“I am sorry sir, but our butter is not grass fed. But it is all natural.”
Well, mentioning the all-natural part just added insult to injury for Morgan Spurlock here, so I am sure you can imagine what followed.
But in the end, he just told the waiter to bring everything we had ordered, and to skip the butter.
As the waiter sulked off, Sarah Jessica Parker had a strangely, happy look on his face. And if your word machine were still working properly you would have asked him what the fuck could he possibly be smiling about since he had just been met with such grave disappointment. But thankfully, he wasted no time in letting you know.
To do this he merely lifted on finger, and excitedly said, “Be right back.”
Luckily for him, he had insisted on circling the block for no less than half an hour because he couldn’t bear to leave his car unwatched for more than a minute or two. But who could blame him? After all, nothing gets stolen more than a 2007 Toyota 4Runner…
So, he was back within seconds, gingerly clutching what appeared to be the smallest cooler you had ever laid eyes on.
Not a moment after plopping back into his iron throne he asked, “do you know what this is?”.
At this point, probably knowing the horrifying answer, you had completely given up on life. If there was anything left to live for, you couldn’t find it. There was no place for you in a world that breeds creatures such as this.
“This is my emergency butter! Isn’t that awesome! Somehow, I run into this problem, allll, the timeeee. So, about a year ago I started carrying this bad boy around with me and let me tell you, it’s a life saverrrrr.”
He then proceeded to slowly unzip the cooler, looking up at you like a little puppy every few seconds. Then he carefully lifted the top and smiled as if he had just uncovered some ancient treasure.
Then, as if somehow your unwanted companion was in fact some evil sorcerer, capable of folding the very fabric of time, the waiter arrives at the exact moment he places the butter upon the table with his coffee.
The waiter tries to hand him a spoon, but he shoos it away like an insolent sweat bee disturbing an English brunch, and proceeds to pull out his very own, butter spoon. He then carefully plunges it into the magical butter, and pulls out not one, but two heaping spoonfulls of pure fat, sliding them giddily into his once thermogenic drink.
It was at this very moment that Betty said “Hey?! Cathy?” and pinched your arm to regain your attention, waking you from your eerily long daydream, of your all too recent brush with death.
“So, have you heard of this, Bullettproof coffee thing or not?”
She giddily asks.
Your eyes widen to the almost blinding light of your all too familiar office, and your ears ring with the shrill sound of countless coworkers chatting mindlessly during their coveted lunch break.
“It is supposed to be amazing for weight loss, and I am totally about to start doing it. Will you try it with me?”
“Come on girl! Let’s kick our bodies into fat burning mode!”
She shrieks stupidly.
Not even half a second after the word “mode” had left her naïve lips did the palm of your burning hand meet her cherry red lips with a slap that echoed through the office break room.
Clutching her face, Betty looked up at you, speechless, as a glistening drop of blood slid effortlessly out of her mouth and fell silently to the floor.
You are a lot of things, but a victim is no longer one of them.