SQUID!

[Richter]

It's horrible now.  I'm staring at the parts of a conglomeration of brass, steel and bone that MUST be done for tomorrow, I havepower tools enough to emascualte a raging mecha mastadon at my disposal, and the safety equipment to go along with them.  I also ahve a horrible head full of overpowered caffeine. 

You catch the blame for this.

Ok, I lie.  I did this to me.  You are facilitator though.  Iw as in the hometown today, over the border where they will still inpsect and certify that my car is a "Safe vehicle", not some halcyon death carrier that ought to be drug off the roads.  Being in the hometown for this, and my family all being occupied, I decided to drop around a few spots to shop.  Frank's Used Sex Toy and Tool store was closed.  The ratfucker decided he doesn't have to open until 1PM, so a gratifying armload of secondhand silicon and scrap metal was out of the picture.  Remembering you tale of $10 french pres travel mugs, I went to Targhetto.  The city has two "Target" stores, you see.  One down on Lincoln, almost to the GBV projects, another off in the south, at the bright shiny retail parks where only the best things are sold.  (This better one is "Tar-jhay", with a hint of Parissian acccent).

Targhetto obliged.  Apparently they are trying to rid themselves of these rickety contraptions, since they were unlabeled and one of the two left was already broken.  I absconded, brought home and tested. 

How much coffee do you put in one of these?  Fuck intructions, I am a professional.

My blood hums now.

[Jenne]

Ha!  I have two Targets too, Richter.  LOVE that moniker system you have going there.  Our "Tar-zhay" is cleaner, in a safer neighborhood, and has slacker security guards that are more interested in checking out the MILF ass sashaying around as they whiz in and out of Escalades with their groms than catching potential teenage thieves.  Whereas our "Tar-ghetto" is very much in the 'hood, with grimy floors, TWO 20-something sharp-faced, snaggle-toothed security guards, who snarl at you if you leave the cart by the door instead of in a single-file line where you got it from.  They surreptitiously peek into your bags as you try to get the fuck outta there, making sure you weren't sticky-fingered and put a half-eaten box of oreos or extra package of batteries in your bag while the lackluster, dull-eyed cashier e v e r  s o  s l o w l y checked you out.

That coffee-press-to-go is probably going to be the lion's share of my husband's Father's Day gift...

EDITED FOR SPELLING

[Richter]

People like the Targhetto crowd strangle commerce, Jenne.  The moment I see a meth mouthed fuck eyeing me, the paranoia kicks in.  Some of the bastards have nothing better to do when they're staggering through for soda and cookies than eye who might they might hassle or provoke enough to lay in a civil suit.  This is happening less frequently now, as Worcester's lawyers and dentists are moving their office closer together.  Circling the wagons, and obligatory surface screenings at each before ANY service is rendered.

There are the land cetaceans too.  The Atlantic wheelchairbound, the bloated "I'm RIGHT" whale, and the Blue Rascal are common breeds.  THey occur out west too, and I msut not delay on producing Dok's harpoon.

Then there is THE PACK.  The barely in control matron, less mobile, appraochign the sedentary post-breeding phase of life, strugglign to contain her unruly multitude.  White goat of the aisles with a dozen young.  Festering bloated fuckers all, they'd make even GRandpa Nurgle go limp.

Until the legislature comes to it's senses and grants me Inquisatorial jurisdiction and powers, I cannot cut my way free of this horde.  I herd them occasionally, run them down some aisle I don't need with a glare and a radiating disgust, to where tehy will fall to quarel amongst themselves over whose cart or child touched whose. 

I need cohorts for this kind of work.  All the best grifts, jibes, and jakes are two person jobs, and on my own, I only want to collect skulls.

[Jenne]

True 'nuff.  The Targhetto has only one thing that separates it from the WallyWorld down the way: location (closest WallyWorld is literally 10 miles away for these folks, which is probably why they ghettoized their own Tar-zhay into this monstrosity of commercial hosebaggery).  The merch is the crappiest and in the crappiest of conditions--no Tar-zhay dweller would even recognize the shelves or their contents if they weren't organized roughly the same as their home stores'.  

And the bathroom is not at the front, conveniently located so you can pee, wash your hands and gtf out before a line forms.  Hells to the naw.  It's in the BACK, stuck between sheets on sale from three seasons ago that someone dusted a floor with and the store hastily wrapped in some holey shrinkwrap shit that doesn't hide one smudge and the rejects from the shampoo aisle that were similarly dropped on the floor and had congealed goo stuck to their sides in small rivulets, so that when you pick them up, you drop them back onto the shelf with an immediate "EWWW!" and wipe your now-slicked up fingers on your jeans, since the line to the two-stall john is about 3-deep.  And of course there's 2 toddlers screaming I HAVE TO WEE NOOOOOW MOMMY! behind you.

[Doktor Howl]

There are the land cetaceans too.  The Atlantic wheelchairbound, the bloated "I'm RIGHT" whale, and the Blue Rascal are common breeds.  THey occur out west too, and I msut not delay on producing Dok's harpoon.

I need that shit.  I can't swing a dead cat in this town, without hitting some morbidly obese landwhale.

I swear, this town is where they get the fat people for Jerry Springer.  450 pounds in "Princess" tee shirt bellowing "You can't HAVE this!". 

God, I hate this town.  I fucking hate it.  I can't stand it.

[Eater of Clowns]

I don't get it.  Maybe I got a shitty one but that one cup french press didn't work well for me at all.  Not to mention keeping the thing stewing in its own grounds for as long as it takes you to drink it, turning your perfectly good french press taste into a sludgy mess.  You might as well use a damn percolator if that's your goal.  Not for EoC, I tells ya, none of this portable french press nonsense no thank you.  I'll use my glass beaker metal plunger holy shrine, I'll use it to make coffee ice cubes so when I chill the drink on hot days it only gets stronger as they melt.

What is this talk of harpoons?  Has someone taken this town's only appeal?  Why the hell would I even bother to continue living here if so?  I can find a 15% unemployment rate without harpoons just about anywhere these days.

[Richter]

It's a rickety apparatus, to be sure.  Chinese lexan and bad engineering.  Like early wheel-lock firearms it is certain to be temperamental and fragile.  Even the reviews on the store's own website cite how easy this thing is to break, and one should not expect to heedlessly slam it about like a regular travel mug.  The crap-at-the-bottom factor is incentive for me, a shot of skullbanging mud at the bottom of every cup, like Turkish Coffee.

The bargain basement prices and portability are the points of interest here.

[Sir Squid Diddimus]

I love mine.
I use 2tablespoons of coffee per 8oz cup.

These things may be a little rickety yes. Try not to throw your coffee into the bottom, pour molten lava over it, screw the cap on with too much force and gusto causing it to crack under the pressure and you know, don't slam the plunger down like you're trying to squash a midget with it or something.

These things require fragility and a delicate touch. The sludge at the bottom is the bonus bit. Think of it as a little chunk of chocolate in the bottom of your juice. The claw that comes out of the shell perfectly to be dipped in butter and devoured. The big piece of fried chicken.

That hum, dear Richter, is the sound of production and serenity. When at the end of the day the lawn has been mowed, everything is clean, the laundry is done, there's a fridge full of food, dinner is hot on the table, a car was donated, a building was painted, a movie was watched and the only thing you remember from the whole day, THE WHOLE DAY was that you pooped at about 12:30.

[Rumckle]

I love mine.
I use 2tablespoons of coffee per 8oz cup.

These things may be a little rickety yes. Try not to throw your coffee into the bottom, pour molten lava over it, screw the cap on with too much force and gusto causing it to crack under the pressure and you know, don't slam the plunger down like you're trying to squash a midget with it or something.

This.

From what I've learnt, if you push it down slower, you get a better cup of coffee. Also I like to heat mine up with hot water before adding the coffee and boiling water. Expands the metal thingy slightly, and puts less heat stress on the cup.

[Triple Zero]

I made cold coffee two days ago. I put about 7-ish spoons into a 25.4oz bottle.

Assuming that's overkill, I'm trying it now with about half milk and a fair amount of sugar.

It tastes pretty good, so far.

[Suu]

Target haters.

-Suu
Loves the Smithfield Tar-jhay, and would probably cry if she ever went into one the equivalent of the Providence Wally-World. *shudder*

[AFK]

Right now my only option for household goods is Wal-Mart.  I hate Wal-Mart with every fiber.  It is an insufferable bastions of fail.  I'd do flips if Target set up shop here. 

[Sir Squid Diddimus]

I love my Target.
It's clean, well stocked, the prices are good and not very crowded. The other shoppers are of better um.. quality? than the walbarf shoppers here.

Those "people of wal mart" photos? Most likely Florida. Since theres a wal mart in every "town".

[Eater of Clowns]

I love mine.
I use 2tablespoons of coffee per 8oz cup.

These things may be a little rickety yes. Try not to throw your coffee into the bottom, pour molten lava over it, screw the cap on with too much force and gusto causing it to crack under the pressure and you know, don't slam the plunger down like you're trying to squash a midget with it or something.

These things require fragility and a delicate touch. The sludge at the bottom is the bonus bit. Think of it as a little chunk of chocolate in the bottom of your juice. The claw that comes out of the shell perfectly to be dipped in butter and devoured. The big piece of fried chicken.

That hum, dear Richter, is the sound of production and serenity. When at the end of the day the lawn has been mowed, everything is clean, the laundry is done, there's a fridge full of food, dinner is hot on the table, a car was donated, a building was painted, a movie was watched and the only thing you remember from the whole day, THE WHOLE DAY was that you pooped at about 12:30.

Oh THIS is where my problem with the contraption arose from.  You see, first I ground the beans into a fine enough powder that one could absorb the caffeine through pores and get the jitters all while growing blackheads made out of coffee grinds.  The water I used was heavy with minerals of unknown origin from my town's early days, and possibly before that even.  The device which I used to heat the water resembled a prop from the witches in Macbeth and when the water had emptied the residue left behind tripled its thickness and strength.  But those are normal coffee roasting procedures.

It was when I looked at the plunger and saw within its rail-thin construction my own skinny frame that has always been the object of ridicule.  I cursed the thing, and using all the strength pencil arms can afford I slammed the bastard down, sloshing lightly browned water right out the top.  This didn't work, as a few grounds managed to slip through, so I decided I obviously hadn't used enough force.  I placed the mini french press on the ground with the plunger up on one side of my apartment.  Donning steel toed Dr. Martens I ran to the thing and landed precisely on the little nub atop the plunger.  Again, coffee splattered about with the powder-fine grinds mixed about it.

The third try I wizened up.  Of course using my hands and feet to operate the thing wasn't going to work; this was a complex machine.  I thought back to my boy scout days where I learned the proper technique for swinging axes and whatnot and proceeded to the basement.  There I found a sledgehammer, all dented and knobby from my previous encounter trying to create adequate pressure in those old shoes that had the pump in them that were all the rage a decade or so ago.  Armed thusly, I squared my stance and stood over the french press thingy.  One hand rested at the bottom of the hilt and the other toward the sledge portion, and as I swung it behind my right shoulder and over my head I slipped the right hand down the hilt to add power to the motion.  The plunger plunged - right through the cup, not only spraying the grinds and scalding water about but this time also sending shards of molten plastic through the skin of my legs, creating a series of wretched scaly melted skin/plastic patches from ankle to groin.  The sledgehammer was unharmed.

1/5 - I would not purchase this product again.

[Jenne]

  , EoC.