Inappropraite Ways to Describe How You Like Your Coffee:
.
.
I like my coffee like I like my boys who whistled at a white woman and then had their heads bashed in, an eye gouged out, were shot in the head, tied to a cotton gin fan with barbed wire, and then tossed in a river, and then their mom insisted on an open casket which helped kickstart the Civil Rights movement, and then the cemetary where the body was was involved in a dig up scandal, but fortunately his grave appeared undisturbed: black.
.
.
I like my coffee like I like my cocaine brought straight over from Central America: So fresh that the mule boy who brought it over is still breathing his last as he feels his innards taste the slight wind of a fan in an underground surgery warehouse when the cup hits my table.
.
.
I like my coffee like I like my diabetes blood: sweet.
.
.
I like my coffee like Nancy Grace who is white as hell and almost as goddamn bitter: Cream, no sugar.
.
.
I like my Starbucks like I like my women: Badly burned by a mid-twenties hipster to the point where I come along and seem awesome by comparison.