I am starting to realize that my whole life revolves around liquids: Without coffee in the morning, I would be a zombie. Without whiskey in the evening, I would be insufferable (After reading something by absent friend Diamat, I suddenly have a craving for Rittenhouse Rye).
I am also toying with the idea that you can add the word “Apocalypse” to anything and create a cool doomsday scenario. COFFEE APOCALYPSE, people. See? Catchy. I sooooo want an Internet meme.
Of course, coffee wasn’t always with us humans, was it? And it may someday be replaced. You have to think about these things when you write SF – what will future humans (or their Giant Alien Ant Overlords) imbibe in the morning to regain sanity? Surely science will gift us with something more efficient than caffeine-suffused broth. Then again, have you seen some of the new-fangled food technologies? <Shudder> No thanks. Still one has to imagine these things, especially if you consider how much work and effort goes into getting your morning java to you. If your SF imagination tends to run dystopic, like mine does, you have to consider a horrible world without coffee, and the terrors it would hold.
But, not today, folks. Not today.
J
Please, for the love of the gods, do not even joke about a Coffee Apocalypse. That would surely be a dystopian future; one that I would not like to be a part of.
::shudders::
::drinks from 3rd coffee this morning::
Man, this could be a GREAT book idea. THE COFFEE APOCALYPSE: When the Cocoa Bean Dies. . .So Do You. By Jeff Somers. Don’t steal my idea.
As long as there is no “Diet Coke” apocalypse, then I’ll be okay. You two are on your own.
The Apocalypse hasn’t even happened yet, but the opposing sides in the eternal struggle have already formed. Gather ye Diet Coke forces, Craig, and soon enough we will meet on the Caffeine Fields for the Last Battle.
Good thing I’ve stocked up on caffeine pills. Y’know, just in case.
The Furry Zombie Apocalypse (or ApoCalypso, as I just mistyped. Hey, I like that) has arrived at R&A Towers.
Every morning I awake to the thumping of the cat tree against the wall and the battering of heads against the door to the snug.
On my way downstairs, I sing (to ‘The Archers’ theme tune) ‘zombie kittens need their brains, tra-la-la la-la la.
I’m still working on it.
Then I make coffee.
Frank,
A third group of stout survivors at the End of the World: Welcome! We Coffee Drinkers will defeat you Pill-Poppers and feast on your brains, thus stealing your knowledge. And your pills.
J
D,
Ah, the kitten zombies–forgot about those. Our oliver leaps onto me at 5:30AM every day (despite the fact that it is the lovely Duchess who actually gets up and feeds them) and proceeds to places his butt directly on my face, knead my chest with his claws, and purr away for ten minutes.
There is no singing here at Camp Levon.
J