Pup Cup of Pandemonium

Courteous readers, gather ’round, for what you have before you is a piece of pure, unadulterated humanity. It seems that life insists on throwing us into the absurd and comical. Sometimes, you find yourself chomping away at a piece of good sourdough, while other times, you might gnaw at something more akin to a rock, though I’m yet to determine which category two-day-old bagels fit into.

It could be worse, folks. You could, perhaps, be in a place devoid of the World Wide Wonder—a relic of a pre-digital era, where gigabytes roam free, and nothing interrupts your crucial work by buffering indefinitely. Perhaps the gods of connectivity have outsourced us, only to be dealt some tasteless irony.

Reckon then, you might call me a nobody. Yet we’ve opinions too, and now and again, even those opinions matter, especially when one is penning what may very well be their final dispatch to the ether. Why, change is about as agreeable as convincing a mule to wear a bonnet, but some changes are more palatable.

For instance, the sublime joy of a pup cup from the Virginia City Roasting House; now there’s an improvement we can all wag at. My four-legged companion, with aspirations as grand as any politician’s, desired a simple medium coffee, black—none of that caramel-mocha-hazelnut-four-shots ordeal.

And would you know it? The pooch’s visage graced the online sphere, a temporary icon in the middle of a sea of memes and cat pictures.

As I sat, composing what could only be described as an epitaph to my blog, the air buzzed with the tension so thick you could carve it with a butter knife. I know, with a writer’s intuition, this post could be my very last.

And then they burst in, those voices, like a band of surreal Avengers shouting demands and probably other things too unprintable. Frozen in that surreal moment, I pondered my fate, pitifully aware of the uncorrected typo glaring back at me—a blunder that’ll haunt my literate soul to the end of days.

The clock ticked, 2,000 words down, spellcheck be damned, and I knew it was time to hightail it out of there. Home called, and the promise of an amber-colored elixir awaited my return.

But lest we forget, my readers, while we are in our little absurdities, the City of Angels finds itself elegizing in flames, and the pervasive smell of hot feathers lingers—a pungent reminder that chaos has the last laugh.

So, without further ado, raise a glass to the madness and toast to the idiosyncrasies of existence.