Me (2:51:39 PM): The bitterness is exquisite.
Me (2:51:46 PM): That is, of the tea that I just imbibed.
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:51:57 PM): oh
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:51:59 PM): i wish i had tea
Me (2:51:56 PM): Which is exquisite by extension.
Me (2:52:16 PM): Yes, for 't is merely the proper thing to wish for.
Me (2:52:29 PM): Have you ever heard of a proper, well-behaved man wishing for bread?
Me (2:52:32 PM): I think not.
Me (2:52:43 PM): But tea.
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:52:47 PM): no no
Me (2:53:20 PM): That's on the lips of every good boy and girl come Yuletide.
Me (2:53:54 PM): Wherefore we see roving packs of urchins saying naught but "tea."
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:54:05 PM): haha
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:54:30 PM): the bratty upperclass youths write such excesses as "teapots" and "teacozies" on their christmas lists
Me (2:54:46 PM): Such insolence!
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:54:56 PM): but if what the storytellers say is true
Me (2:55:00 PM): In my day, we settled for tea-holes.
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:55:04 PM): they will receive nought but a cup of coffee
Me (2:55:19 PM): The storytellers never err.
Me (2:55:44 PM): They will receive naught but the rudest coffee come Christmas day.
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:56:04 PM): indeed
Me (2:56:01 PM): Lo, their stockings shall overflow with the crude stuff.
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:56:07 PM): black as coal
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:56:10 PM): with not a drop of cream
Me (2:56:11 PM): Forsooth.
Me (2:57:17 PM): Then, come New Years, Santa shall impress them to serve on his Columbian coffee plantation, where they will endure many privations while extracting tons of the crude stuff for next year.
Me (2:57:23 PM): *Year's.
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:57:42 PM): or so tradition says
Me (2:57:52 PM): As is the custom, yes.
Me (2:58:34 PM): The old fellow also has a cocaine factory in the jungles nearby.
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:58:49 PM): i haven't heard this tale
Me (2:58:52 PM): It's how he pays his elves.
Me (2:59:01 PM): That is, in cocaine.
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:59:09 PM): is that where the good unbaptised children go after dying?
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:59:13 PM): oh
Me (2:59:12 PM): That, too.
Me (2:59:40 PM): You see, unbaptized babes manufacture the said substance deep in the jungles as punishment for their sin.
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (2:59:56 PM): aha
Me (3:00:05 PM): The grim produce of their labors then fund a system of cruel exploitation.
Me (3:00:28 PM): *then funds.
Me (3:00:36 PM): But yes, the whole affair is terribly sordid.
Me (3:01:42 PM): Oh, and let's not forget the whole "letters to Santa" business.
Me (3:02:18 PM): You see, Santa thrives off of consumer spending and paper consumption, without either of which he would surely perish.
Me (3:02:42 PM): I forgot.
Me (3:02:59 PM): He is also sustained by the hopes and fears of children worldwide.
Me (3:03:29 PM): Hope that they will receive tea, and fear of coffee and being Shanghai-ed into working at his coffee plantation.
Sir Awesome the Phantasmagoric (3:03:58 PM): i will return, one smoothie richer, for it is all i am capable of eating in this present state which the gods have subjected me to
Me (3:04:05 PM): Godspeed, sir
As you can evidence for yourself, I've gone categorically insane.