Yes, you. The one with the "Shift Supervisor" on your name tag (God, why didn't I focus on the name instead of the title?). At the Bruegger's on Excelsior in St. Louis Park. You rang me up and got my coffee.
I watched you fill my cup with French Roast. I saw it run out before the cup was full; you tipped and shook the container to try to get more out. Then I watched you move over to the one marked "Hazelnut Cream," and I watched you dispense that into my cup.
When you returned to the register, I asked, "Did you just put flavored coffee in there?" You know, because I saw you doing it. You mumbled something about "No ... decaf ..."
Now, I thought about saying something. But I figured that a wee bit of decaf diluting the caffeinated goodness of my French Roast wouldn't kill me, so I let it go. Plus, I didn't want to be an asshole. There was just a huge rush of people in there right before me, so I took word for it.
I left. I didn't even take a sip of the coffee until I was long gone, on my way to work. And guess what that coffee tasted like. HAZELNUT. You motherfucking asshole. YOU LIED TO MY FACE. I saw you do it. I called you on it and you lied to me, you fucking bastard.
You know, all I wanted was a goddamn cup of coffee to go with my bagel. I was starving, because I had been fasting. I'd just come from my fantastic annual exam, where I'd been poked with needles in both arms, been felt up and had a variety of objects stuck in my happy place (which isn't so happy when there is metal in it, as it turns out). I had just scheduled my very first mammogram, you dick.
Thanks for ruining my morning with your douchbaggery, asswipe.