5 Ways Coffee Creamer is Murdering Your Entire Family

I have an “unfounded” fear of putting cream in my coffee.

I think it tastes pretty good, but I always think, “what if I spill it on my shirt? Or if a bit dribbles down my chin? That milk fat, or lactose, or whey, or whatever enzyme it is that causes stale milk to smell so putrid is going to curdle, and it’s going to smell deplorable. There’s no way I’m risking it — not even for that heavenly creamy flavor.”

So, on the off-chance that a bit of my coffee ever spills, I will continue drinking my coffee black.

A paranoia that defies odds and logic — but one I have operated under for years — especially while traveling.

Today, prior to a 10-hour flight from London to Eugene, Oregon, I bought myself a large (venti?) black coffee to drink in the departing terminal while I waited for my plane. Yummy, delicious coffee — what better while towing two giant & obnoxious bags around my neck, shimmying in an imaginary queue like a sheep without a Border Collie, waiting for an uncertain moment where I was allowed aboard the flying machine.

Dramatic Recreation

Not priority boarding, or first class boarding, just the random dash that comes only after everyone above the bottom of the barrel is allowed to run aboard the flying machine and stash their goods in the overhead vessel.

After waddling aboard — of course my luggage storage area had reached capacity — because why should peasants have enough area to store their goods? They shouldn’t have any goods to begin with if you ask me. Despite disobeying this social norm — I felt entitled to also be able to both own, and store, things.

I found a nook for my items about 10 rows behind my assigned seat — so I went back and jammed my first bag into the tight fit. It reminded me of what the doctor probably considered doing when I was born — “the world doesn’t really need this, let’s just shove him right back in, shall we?”

Once that first bag was sorted out — it was time to find a home for bag #2, as I was seated in the all-important “emergency exit” seat. I not only had the all-important job of making sure everyone on board would have a pleasant departure immediately after the 500 ton aircraft nose-dives into the ocean, but it also meant I wasn’t allowed to “possess” a computer bag unlike any of the other passengers.

But I was now near the rear of the plane and I would have to swim upsteam, against the current to return to my seat. On an international flight, this is much harder than I’d ever imagined. It makes those stupid obstacle course races that people pay to do (and get infected from pig-feces enemas) seem rudimentary. So, I would move up about a foot, then wait. Another foot, and let another 20 people pass. Finally I got close enough to see my seat.

I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. By my initial seat sat my messenger bag. But also, my delicious coffee. I watched the rear of my seat as people scooted by with smiles on their smug faces (excited to sit in a diseased-filled tin can for 10 hours, are we?) Slowly, but surely, I was just about there when it happened.

A man came past the first-class curtain. The biggest, dumbest smile of all the moronic passengers. He looked like an anthropomorphized, live-action Goofy. His limbs flopping about, exaggerated by his oversized clothes and shoes.

Recreation: annoying passenger

One thing I failed to mention earlier is that after 10 minutes of frantically blowing on my coffee at the terminal — I had decided this was the one time. Despite being a big fan of delayed gratification, this would be the one time I would treat myself, and allow myself to cool my coffee with a splash of cream.

Once I got to pouring the cream, I couldn’t help but think, “What the hell? You only live once. Let’s go crazy!” Maybe it’s from spending a month living out of a backpack in Europe. Maybe it’s because this was the Starbucks Christmas Blend and I had a bit of the holiday spirit leaking into my bloodstream — but I went wild. I poured and poured and poured until the cows came home. “I’m an adult and I’m gonna drink some milky-ass coffee — maybe even enough to get a tummy-ache!”

Well. I enjoyed about a third of that delicious, milky coffee before setting it down in front of my seat. The seat Goofy was now approaching with unadulterated exuberance. I knew it was over once I saw his stupid smiling face. I tried to push against the current — knocking a few older women down in their seats and smacking one chubby guy in the gut with an elbow, but I arrived seconds too late.

I didn’t even need to look — I just knew.

Goofy looked around, in his cartoonish way, and then threw his arms up. Seconds later, I passed him going upstream. Still too far away to see my seat for certain, I said to him, “You spilt my coffee — didn’t you?”

“Well garsh — I was trying to find ya.” (I doubt he actually said “garsh” — but I heard garsh, okay?)

Find me, Goofy? What would finding me have done ya big doofus?

I brushed past him — more disappointed that the world confirmed my biggest fears than at the actual spilled milk.

It couldn’t have been that bad, right? I’m just an overly-dramatic pain in the arse. I was being unreasonable. I convinced myself all of this pretty quick and calmed myself down — that made me quite proud of myself. Then I hoisted my bag up.


Okay, okay — but it’s just a bag. A nice bag for a stingy bastard like me, but a bag nonetheless.

Okay well, what else? Well the pillow and blanket meant for me to use for rest during this arduous journey were spared, right? Does spared mean soaked and covered in milky coffee? Because yes — they were spared.

I then sat down, in a moist puddle, and dazed off. Just looking forward through the entire plane — peering miles into the distance. Thoughts went through my head like, “why do we bother to wake up in the morning? To contribute as a cog in a system where only a handful benefit on the backs of billions of laborers? Why are we all okay with this? How did we get here and why am I going to allow it to continue? Because of course I will. We all will — even the social justice advocates will put up a big fuss until their kid is late for school, or until they want that new back-splash in the kitchen.”

Sat in 2nd class (3rd, 4th, 5th? How low am I?) peeping into first. Smelling their food (makes my tummy rumble) then receiving mine (is this edible? Why is there no scent?)

Why would I take for me to sit up there? How do you “learn” you belong there?

No matter what’s happened to me I wouldn’t feel like I belong. I barely feel like I belong on earth, much less a VIP area. I’m happy enough to be A P, but less an IP, or even a VIP.

“Maybe I can at least write some stupid, overly-dramatized, post about this and post it on the internet. Maybe some idiot will be dumb enough, or bored enough, to read it.” I thought.

Yeah. Let’s do that. If God is real, and I’m hopeful he is, I’m certain he put us on this Earth to do just that. Write shitty nonsense about the mundanities of existence and publish it on the internet. God bless America.

Craig Wiroll is a paranoid schizophrenic who lives in his mother’s attic, eats only Cheetos, and isn’t allowed to own cats anymore.