How My Iced Coffee Made Me An Atheist

This is barista humor, I guess

You know spring is there when going out for an iced coffee with your colleagues is back in fashion. Our go-to place is the park next to the office; there’s always one of these mobile coffee bikes waiting for us.

Last month, a new barista came into town.

A gift from God, he was systematically flashing a beautiful smile our way and giving it a sexy twist when his eyes landed on my breasts.

I asked Jeanine, my mentor for all things relating to coffee, to come with me and confirm.

• “Yep, he’s into you,” Jeanine said. “He’s ready to cocoa your cappuccino, soy milk your flat white, and syrup your latte.”

Finally! God truly existed. God had heard my prayers for a sexy barista falling in love with me and shaking my jar until my milk is froth — so to say.

So now, you might be surprised. My iced coffee’s supposed to have made me an atheist, and there I’m writing that God answered my prayers.

Well.

Here’s the sad story that brought me from “OMG, God is great!” to being a hardcore Nietzschean atheist.

After Jeanine’s confirmation, it was time to act. I finished at work around five and was in the park a minute later. God was with me; my handsome barista was all by himself. Sure enough, he sexy-smiled when he saw me coming.

“Hey there! Can I have my favorite iced coffee?” I asked quite innocently.

“Sure thing. Do you have a few minutes? I would love to make it special for you.” He answered to my pleasant surprise.

“I would love that!”

I was in heaven; this was going so well. I went some ten feet away and sat on a bench. He looked so focused; he was busy sculpting the ice cubes.

Mr. Sexy Barista was an artist!

I closed my eyes to savor the anticipation of all the sweet banter and events to come. My mind was full-mode in intense psychological foreplay.

• “Finished!” He called. “It’s ready for you, my fair Lady.”

What a gentleman! I came up to the coffee bike, our fingers touched, like a teaser trailer for all his future caresses on my body. And then, I looked down at my cup.

He had indeed sculpted the ice cubes. I realized what he had done in a flash. There were not cubes, and there were not hearts; there were small dicks. The f*cker had sculpted little ice dicks?! Was this the barista’s equivalent of a dick pic?

Right here, my faith vanished. No God could have such poor taste in humor. As Nietzsche would have tweeted if he could, “God is dead. God remains dead. And dick pics have killed him.”

With thanks to Ellie Guzman and her article in Lady Pieces for the title.

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