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5. Watch as he tries to avoid the sixty-seven pit bulls and twenty-three Doberman pinschers who have gone unfed for a week and will be 1 running full speed right at him from the opposing forty-five yard line.

He makes it from one end to the other alive? He gets to go free.

I'd offer that deal to Michael Vick right now.

Otherwise?

Let him finish serving his time.

And send a feral cat up into his colon to claw the old footballs out.

CHAPTER 13 - Grande Vente Mocha Oprah Chai

No, this is not an anti-Starbucks rant.

I did that already.

It's called Coffee Flavored Coffee and it's on my second album, Lock'N Load. Buy that or the DVD and listen as I wallop my way through nine minutes about bullshit java recipes-nine minutes of caffeinated cobra spew.

I could update that bit this very second with my thesis on how Starbucks may be responsible for the pussification of America-I reresearch the subject once or twice a week when I stand in line there and listen as some limp-wristed, yellow-Lance-Armstrong-bracelet-wearing, metrosexualhair-goo-sporting, Hillary-Clinton's-tired-old-ass-worshipping puke spends twelve minutes trying to decide between the Orange Cranberry Vagina Muffin or the Pumpkin Cream Tampon Cake while fingering a Save The Rain Forest Compilation CD featuring Sting, Sheryl Crow, Joni Mitchell, Sting's Abs, That Hot 19-Year-Old Blonde White English Chick Who Sounds Like Janis Joplin, and Sting's Penis-who apparently pops out of his master's yoga pants to sing his new single "How I Have Tantric Sex With Trudie Styler For Seven Straight Hours."

Which is amazing.

Not that the penis can sing-but that he can actually be that horny for Sting's wife. I mean-seven minutes maybe.

I guarantee my wife would not be interested in me physically expressing my love for her over the course of seven straight hours-unless six and a half of those involved getting out of bed and cleaning the house.

Very quietly.

And while we are on the subject of bullshit-let's get rid of the term "barista" right the fuck now.

In the dictionary-not the Starbucks make up your own words dictionary-the Merriam-Webster real life, real words, real definitions dictionary-"barista" is defined as coming from the Italian language and meaning "someone who works behind a bar."

Which is big news for a bevy of guys named Sully and Fitzie and Clyde and Reggie who have been serving soda glasses full of Canadian Club with Budweiser chasers and Jell-O shots and Colt 45 Malt Liquor for decades thinking of themselves as nothing more than trumped-up bouncers with two dishrags and a baseball bat under the counter.

Hey guys-you are no longer just bartenders. Yer baristas!

Run down to Starbucks and get a goddam raise, a sixteen-thread Egyptian-cotton apron and a free copy of Mitch Albom's new book Five Dead Guys Who Are Dating My Dead Mom!

Barista is meant to conjure up images of a profoundly dedicated coffee sommelier who busies him- or herself with a constant search for the perfect mug of espresso-tinted java with just the right hint of cream combined with enough of the individual bean's aroma to justify its taste on your eager and expensive tongue.

That ain't what it means no more.

Thanks to Starbucks, barista has come to mean an overly friendly, far too kinetic Fall Out Boy fan who chowders up a smirky smile and a loud Welcome To Starbucks Hope You're Having A Great Day So Far What Can We Get For You Sir but then immediately blanches when you mention the actual word "coffee."

He almost always just stands there for a beat-the Fall Out Boy lyrics draining from his Vicodin-rattled veins-before asking if you would prefer to order from the menu.

Then when you say For seventeen goddam bucks a cup I don't wanna read a fucking menu, he begins to blink uncontrollably.

That's what the term "barista" conjures up.

Or a slow, slim-witted, corporate robotron who feels the need to mention that the term "large iced coffee" has to be reconfigured as Grande Vente Ristretto Breve Bullshit Blah Blah Mucho