Frappuccino and Margarita

Frappuccino® Blended Beverages: Starbucks Coffee Company

“It’s over!” Margarita screamed as she slammed the door in my face. 
I stood on the porch feeling destitute. Now I was without a home, without an address to call my own.
At some point I had loved Margarita Jones, but those feelings had died years ago. She was beautiful, smart, sexy and downright mean. Her parents named her after their favorite cocktail, the Margarita. But they should have named her Jalapeno Margarita, because she left me feeling burnt.Our love affair had lasted 49 years, and now it was over. We started dating when I was 42. I am now 91. 
Everyone in the Jones family was named after a cocktail or alcoholic beverage. Sometimes it was hard to tell them apart (I always confused her twin sisters, Gin Martini and Vodka Martini). 

I got to know Margarita because of her father, Mint Julep Jones. He was my mentor when I went to seminary. Sometimes I would look in the mirror and pretend to be him. I’d repeat his signature catchphrase to myself. His catchphrase was “I’M THE BEST AND BRIGHTEST MAN IN BRYN MAWR.” I would say this to myself over and over. But the truth is, there’s only room for one best and brightest person in any town. So it was either him or me. 
After 48 years of looking up to Mint Julep I decided to kill him. He was already 120 years old. He had lived long enough. I wanted to take his place as the best and brightest in Bryn Mawr. I decided to kill him with a clothes hanger, much like an abortionist would use. I am an abortionist in fact (I don’t use clothes hangers though… I only use top of the line abortion equipment). At first I wanted to be a priest like Mint Julep, but then I decided to become an abortionist instead. 
I snuck into Mint Julep’s room, hanger in hand and poked him with it repeatedly. Unfortunately it wasn’t penetrating his skin no matter how hard I pushed. Apparently it’s easier to  perform abortions with clothes hangers than it is to use them to kill adults. I began poking his eyes with the clothes hanger and he woke up.
He stared at me. 
“Vanilla Frappucino?” he said (my name is Vanilla Frappucino…much like the Joneses with cocktails, everyone in my family is named after a Starbucks beverage). “What in tarnation are you doing with that rod? Stop poking my eye!” His wife, whose birth name was Edna but known to everyone in the family as Momma Mojito, woke up. She saw me poking her husband’s eye and began to scream. I started poking her in the eye and Mint Julep tried to grab my clothes hanger. “This is not working” I thought to myself. Suddenly their daughter Mojito Jr. came in the room. She ripped the clothes hanger out of my hands. Luckily I had also brought an explosive grenade with me. I threw it at the elderly couple and their middle aged daughter and ran out of the house.
I heard the big boom. I saw Mint Julep’s limbs fly from out of the window of his room. “He must be dead now” I thought to myself. This meant that I was now the best and brightest man in Bryn Mawr. I was on top of the world. Little did I realize that Margarita wouldn’t feel the same.
The next morning I woke up feeling refreshed at 6am. Margarita began preparing my daily buttered toast. “Where were you last night, Dunkaccino?” she said. (Her pet name for me was Dunkaccino…just a kind of clever play on words since I am named after a Starbucks beverage and not a Dunkin Donuts beverage). 
“Oh, I just went to your parents place. I killed them and your sister Mojito Jr.””WHAT?” she shrieked.I hadn’t anticipated this kind of negative response. “IT’S OVER” she screamed.And slammed the door in my face. 
I couldn’t stand the thought of being without a home and starting over again. I was 92 years old and my best years were still ahead of me, but I was old enough to be complacent about where I lived. “Can’t we work things out?” I yelled. She poked her head out of the window and gave me a cold hateful stare. It hurt my feelings to have someone be so cruel to me, so I began to cry. “Please!” I yelled with tears in my eyes. “I love you Margarita Jones! You are the apple of my eye.” I felt as though I was on the brink of collapse. I had an additional grenade in my pocket, which I considered using to kill myself, but I decided against it. Lucky I made that choice, because at that moment Margarita stepped out onto the porch.

“Vanilla Frappucino, even though you killed my parents and sister, I still love you. But it will be difficult to forgive you for what you have done to my family. Therefore I will accept you back, on the condition that you agree to see a couples therapist with me.”
“Anything!” I said. 
She opened the door and we made passionate love for 6 hours straight. 
I wanted to work things out with Margarita so I knew that I had to find the best therapist in all of Bryn Mawr. Money was no object. I’d pay upwards of $50 a session because I cared about my love. Being a medical professional, I called all of my colleagues until I identified the greatest psychotherapist I could find; His name was Dr. Frasier Crane. 
When I first called his practice I remarked that it was funny that he shared his name with a famed sitcom psychologist. “Yes” he said “I was actually born by the name of Harold Blatstein, but I legally changed my name to Frasier Crane because I was such a fan of the show.” 
I found this to be very endearing. Things were already off to a good start with Dr. Crane. 
We scheduled an appointment for the following Tuesday at 7am. 
Margarita and I showed up and approached the receptionist. “Name?” she said”Vanilla Frappucino” I said.”Phone number?” she said”215-844-1933″ I said. (This isn’t my real number, but I thought it important to include actual realistic phone number digits to paint a vivid picture of this life event).”Address?” she said”What is my address?” I thought to myself”ADDRESS?” said the receptionist, agitated.”I…I don’t remember…”The receptionist seemed pissed, but then cooled down “Look, I’m just trying to do my job. When you get home, go to whatismyaddress.org and text me what it tells you”I stared in her eyes and she blushed a bit. She was not unattractive, and my mind flashed with images of having sexual intercourse with her.
We were seated in Dr. Frasier Crane’s Office. We explained why we needed therapy, how I had killed her parents, and how we needed to save our marriage. 
“Your case is rather unique” said Dr. Crane. “I practice in the tradition of psychoanalysis. We psychoanalysts believe that it is very common for a man to murder his father and have sex with his mother, you have behaved in quite a different way…you have murdered your lover’s mother and father and had sex with neither of them. This is quite a puzzling case, but also profoundly interesting. I think it best if I interview Vanilla Frappucino alone. Mrs. Jones, if you’ll leave me alone with your husband I’d appreciate it. In the lobby you’ll find a full spread of Dunkin Donuts items including coffee, donut holes, donuts, bagels, frappucinos and breakfast sandwiches”
“Frappucinos?” Margarita said. “If it’s a Dunkin’ Donuts spread, it would be a Dunkaccino not a Frapuccino.”
“How embarrassing” said Dr. Crane “You are correct. Frappucinos are from Starbucks. It was simply a Freudian slip on my part. You see, your husband’s name is Frappucino and you call him Dunkaccino. I have become so immersed in your case that I am already mincing words. I do apologize. Now go enjoy the spread while I talk to your husband.”
She exited swiftly, but not before pecking me on the cheek. “I’ll save a donut hole for you.” she said.
Dr. Crane got up and locked the door behind her. “There’s no Dunkin Donuts spread, that was a ploy.” Almost instantly she began banging the door. “Just ignore that.” said Dr. Crane. 
“Now look, Frappucino, my receptionist told me that you didn’t remember your address. This is a serious concern. You are repressing this information for some deep-seated reason which we need to get to the bottom of! It may not be easy to figure out, but I do feel it is the key to solving the problems in your life and marriage.”
“You’re not making any sense, Dr. Repressing information? I KNOW WHERE I LIVE GODAMMIT!”
“Calm yourself, Boy.” said Dr. Crane. “You have much to learn about the mind. You see, we all possess something called a subconscious…it’s a sort of infinite landscape inside our minds that we are incapable of accessing. Fragments of the subconscious leak out in dreams, through jokes, and through slips of the tongue. Think of your mind as a nut. A psychoanalyst is basically a nutcracker…he cracks open the shell to find the good things inside.”
Suddenly Margarita began banging on the door again
“I can’t find the Dunkin Donuts spread!” she was screaming.
“Maybe it’s best if we end the session for the day” said Dr. Crane. I got up to leave. As i grasped the door handle the Dr. looked at me sternly. “Frappucino, before you leave I had better mention something to you. My receptionist mentioned that in addition to forgetting your address you also stared at her with sexual longing. I’ll have you know that she is not only my receptionist, she’s also my wife. If you dare to touch her, you will pay a hefty price.”
I looked at Dr. Crane. I could see the threatening energy in his eyes. “Dr. Crane, I love my wife as well. I am trying to save our marriage. It’s undeniable that your receptionist/wife is hot…but right now I’m focused on loving the woman I already have. Fear not.”
Dr. Crane thanked me. He pulled an apple out of his lab coat. “An apple day keeps the doctor away” he said, laughing. He passed me the apple. 
“Eat that, and I’ll see you next week.”
Margarita bickered incessantly on the ride home. “He promised Dunkin’ Donuts and there was none! This is outrageous! I want a new doctor!” I tended to agree with her. I didn’t like the tone Dr. Crane took with me, especially in regards to his wife, but I liked his style and the fact that he had legally changed his name to Frasier Crane. “Let’s give him another chance, honey. I have a feeling about this guy.”
When I got home I followed the receptionist’s instructions and visited whatismyaddress.org. It immediately gave me my address along with Nearby locations of interest. I was also able to see my zip code, the name of my neighborhood. It also showed me my state and my country. My intersection. My GPS coordinates. “Hell of a website I thought to myself.” I saw my address and took mental note of it. I called the receptionist to let her know what it was. I had no intentions of pursuing a sexual relationship with her..after Dr. Crane’s stern warning I was frankly scared.  She picked up and answered in a sultry voice. “Is this who I think it is?”
The timbre of her voice was an instant turn on. I found myself getting aroused. I could feel my hard penis rubbing against my shirt (I wasn’t wearing any pants). “This is Vanilla Frappucino” I said. My voice was shakey, trembling with sexual excitement. “So, did you find out what your address is?” she said.
“I used the website you recommended, whatismyaddress.org… and it worked perfectly. My address is 152 Billington Lane.”
“Ok Tiger, thanks. Now that I know your address maybe I can stop on by and we could do something naughty.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be an option. Dr. Crane mentioned that you’re his wife and gave me ample reason to avoid any sexual contact with you. Besides, I’m married!”
I heard her laughing. “You felt threatened by Frasier? He’s a lamb and a coward. And besides, we’re not married. He just tells people that. What time should I come by?”
I was quivering. I could barely contain my excitement. But I quickly realized that Margarita was still in the house. “She can’t find out” I thought to myself, “this will hurt our marriage even more.” But I couldn’t give up this opportunity to have a sexual experience with an attractive person. “Just come by in an hour” I told the receptionist. “By the way, what is your name?”She paused. “My name is also Vanilla Frapuccino.” she said.When I heard that she had the same name as me I knew I needed to have sex with her.
It was odd, I thought to myself, that Dr. Crane had mistakenly referred to a Dunkaccino as a Frapuccino. He said that it was because my name was Frapuccino and that he was deeply immersed in my case. But in fact his troubled love interest was also named Frappucino. These thoughts raced through my mind and I almost forgot that I’d need to find a way to get Margarita out of the house when Frapuccino came over. 
“Margarita” I yelled. She came down the stairs wearing nothing but a negligee. She ran her fingers across my chest. “I see you’re already hard as a rock” she said. Little did she know that I was hard for Vanilla Frappuccino. “Look, baby, I need some time alone here for the next couple of hours. Do you think you could go outside or something? I heard there’s a free spread of Dunkin Donuts around the corner…apparently they have all kinds of stuff…donuts, donut holes, bagels, frappuccinos, etc.””Oh really? I’m gonna go get some stuff!” she said excitedly. She scurried out of the house.
This was a great trick I learned from Dr. Crane…to distract Margarita with false offerings of free Dunkin Donuts. But I realized that I made the same fatal flaw as he..I had referred to the Dunkaccino as a Frapuccino. Surely this would blow my cover and prevent me from having the full blown sexual experience with my namesake, Vanilla Frapuccino that I wished to have. “Oh well” I thought to myself.
At that moment I heard the doorbell ring. I opened it, and standing before my eyes was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen; Vanilla Frappucino. “Let’s get to it!” she said.
We had great, passionate sex for the better part of 2 hours. I became so immersed in the sensual experience, the flopping flesh and the voluminous moans that I forgot about Margarita. That is, until I heard the front door open. “In flagrante delictoVanilla Frappucino moaned as I abruptly stopped making love to her. Margarita walked in the room. 

“There was no Dunkin Donuts spread! And you said there’d by frappucinos but that’s a Starbucks product, not a Dunkin Donuts product” she said. “And why are you engaged in sex acts with Dr. Crane’s receptionist??!”
I had no answers. I followed my first instinct, which was to run out of the house, directly to Dr. Crane’s office. I banged on the window loudly. Dr. Crane came outside. “Yes, Vanilla Frappucino?” he said. “You know I don’t typically see patients without an appointment unless it’s an emergency…so what’s the issue?”
“I…I betrayed Margarita…with your wife Vanilla Frappucino.”
“You insolent sow!” Frasier screamed. He punched me in the face. I fell to the floor. I tasted trickles of salty blood flowing out of my mouth. He began pummeling me further. He stomped on my ribcage. I heard the cracking of bones. I saw him pick up a hammer. He smashed it against both of my kneecaps. I screamed in agony and stared up at Dr. Frasier Crane. He looked down at me.  “I apologize,” he said. “Violence is never the answer. Let’s talk about this in my office.”
I told him all about everything in full detail, using whatismyaddress.org, calling the receptionist, deceiving Margarita by telling here there was a Dunkin Donuts spread and then making love to Vanilla Frappucino, and getting caught. 
“The thing which strikes me as being most significant,” said Dr. Crane “is that you, like me, referred to a Dunkaccino as a Frapuccino, even though you were speaking of a Dunkin’ Donuts spread and not a Starbucks spread. I would like, with your permission, to include this in my newest publication, which will be a case study about you and your wife.”
“Really?” I said excitedly. I had always dreamed of being the subject of a book.
“Yes,” said Dr. Crane.
TO BE CONTINUED….

What is My Address?

3d Guy: Man Confused By Documents · GL Stock Images


Time and time again the question keeps popping into my head; “What is my address?”


I know what you’re probably thinking: YOU SHOULD KNOW YOUR ADDRESS!
Friends, I’m here to tell you that not everyone knows their own address, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. There are a plethora of reasons why an individual may not know their own address. In my case, I suffer from a Traumatic Brain Injury that affects my memory


A little about me: I attended Duke University on a Football Scholarship. I had one foot in the realm of academia (I was studying Epistemology and the thesis I was working on had groundbreaking insights into both Kant and Hegel, as well as a solid refutation of some early theories of Spinoza) and my other foot was in Football.


I was a force to be reckoned with. I had both the brains and the body; men and women alike fawned over me and wanted desperately to be my lover. I am bi-sexual so this attention was welcome, however I am also very discerning when it comes to affairs of the heart. Even though I had dozens, perhaps hundreds of male and female suitors, I only became intimate with 9 of them; 6 males and 3 females. I had an open relationship with all of them at the same time. 


Now, you may be thinking that my traumatic brain injury was caused by playing football. However, you’d be very wrong in that assumption. I was so adept at catching the ball, and my speed was so lightning fast that I was never tackled, not once. My brain injury resulted from something else entirely.
When I was in the midst of my 9 love affairs I’d show affection in the form of baking. I’m not one for pecks on the cheek or hugs or the like. My favorite baked good to prepare for my male and female companions was banana bread. As you can imagine, with 9 lovers to bake for, there were never ending loaves of banana bread being prepared. This also meant that there were a plethora of banana peels laying on my kitchen floor. It was inevitable that one day I’d slip on a peel…and finally after 4 years of making my banana breads, I did slip on a peel. It was on the day I was supposed to present my thesis on Kant and Hegel to the thesis committee.


I slipped on a stray peel and my head hit the floor. Blood was gushing and I saw small fragments of skull and brain matter on the ground. I was so determined to present my research to the committee and defend my groundbreaking thesis that I ignored medical treatment and rushed to school. I wore a dark colored beanie to soak up the blood and brain matter that was leaking from my skull.


My adrenaline was rushing and I felt no pain as I defended my controversial refutation of Kant’s third formulation. It was a tough committee. They threw me many curveballs in the midst of my defense. I was forced against my will to justify my positions through the lens of Dialectical Materialism. Luckily my keen research into both Hegelian and Marxist dialectical traditions paid off. The committee was impressed with my defense and even complimented me on my stylish beanie. I was awarded my Master’s Degree in Philosophy. It was 4pm and I felt relieved…until I remembered that that championship game of the football season was to take place at 6pm. 


I rushed across campus to the football field and placed the helmet over my injured head. The tight inner padding of the helmet rubbed against my exposed brain matter. It hurt like hell, but I was determined to win this game for the home team.

Fastforward to 8pm and we’ve won the NCAA Championships. I was proud, but also concerned about my injury. 
There’s a well-equipped hospital not even one mile from Duke’s football field. I ran there as fast as I could. I was taken directly to the ICU when I showed the receptionist my fractured skull. 


A doctor came to my side and told me I had suffered a traumatic brain injury. “What the hell!…How is that possible?” I screamed at the doctor. I was enraged. “In many cases we can avoid traumatic brain injuries, but it appears that you rubbed something against the exposed brain matter. Is this possible?””Doctor, it was just a beanie and then a football helmet, that’s all!'”That’s all it takes, son.”The doctor was sympathetic and rubbed my shoulders in a loving, fatherly way. “It’s not so bad. Many people live full lives even with traumatic brain injuries. But you will need to learn how to adapt. For example, you’ll never remember what your address is from now on.” 
I was devastated. I felt droplets forming in my eyes. I had no control over my emotions. A deluge of tears began streaming down my face. The doctor hugged me. “How will I ever know what my address is?” I pleaded.The doctor shrugged and in that moment I felt myself slip away into unconsciousness. It had been a long day and I was dead tired.

In the morning I was discharged from the hospital. I hailed a taxi cab. “Where to?” said the gruff driver.I couldn’t remember what my address was.”WHERE TO BUDDY?””I…I don’t know”The driver was angry now. “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAB!”I was lost and had no idea where I lived. The detrimental side effects of this traumatic brain injury were already wreaking havoc on my life!


Figuring out where I lived seemed hopeless. I walked endlessly until I stumbled upon a realtor’s office. They set me up with a new home. I got settled in. Tidied up. Made the space livable. 


As I used the lovely kitchenette to make my inaugural loaf of banana bread, I realized that I had no idea what my new address was. Out of desperation I searched google. “What is my address?” A bunch of garbage came up. Then I clicked on the link for whatismyaddress.org …and it was that easy.It told me EXACTLY what my address was. “This is a godsend” I thought to myself, “a great website for someone like me.”

I got accustomed to my new life at my new home. I lost contact with my 9 lovers, as I had forgotten my old address and didn’t know how to reach them. I was also embarrassed about my brain injury. I didn’t want to go on a lengthy diatribe explaining what had happened. They were good lovers, but I knew I could do better. I set about finding a new set of lovers to keep me company. Using a popular online dating service I made dates with several dozen people of various genders. 


Of the 53 people I went on dates with, I decided to continue seeing 14 of them. After the courting period, we’d get to that awkward moment where they’d ask where I live. “Dammit!” I’d think to myself. “Ok, well what is your zip code? Your neighborhood? Your county?” they’d often follow up with. “Shit!” I’d think. I was the perfect date in every other way; highly intelligent, very attractive and extremely wealthy. But my Achilles’ Heel was my inability to remember my own address. I’d awkwardly excuse myself and rush to a toilet stall to look up my address on whatismyaddress.org.

The first time I did this, we were dining at Pietro’s Pizzeria in Philadelphia, located at 1714 Walnut St. I told my date that I had a very bad case of diarrhea and I ran to the toilet. I went to whatismyaddress.org and found that my address was 1714 Walnut St. I returned from the bathroom, explained that I had expunged all of the liquid fecal matter from my bowels, and then told the date my address “Earlier you inquired about my address,” I said. “well, it’s 1714 Walnut St.”


“1714 Walnut St?” my date said sarcastically. “So you live in Pietro’s Pizzeria? The very restaurant where we are currently dining.” He began to loudly guffaw.This is the moment when I learned that whatismyaddress.org doesn’t tell you where you reside, but rather the address where you are currently situated. I realized my own mistake but didn’t want to allow this insolent nobody to get one over on me. 


“Yes, I do live above this pizzeria. In fact, I own it.”I immediately excused myself for the second time by saying that my diarrhea was acting up again. I bribed a waiter with a $20 bill and told her to play along with me and pretend I was the owner.


The bribed waiter came to our table and did as she was told…but she wasn’t a great actor. She was not able to successfully convey that I was the owner without cracking a smile or breaking into laughter. I shooed her away. I felt embarrassed so I excused myself on account of the diarrhea once again but this time I simply darted out of the establishment never to return again. Needless to say, I didn’t see my date again. I didn’t like his insolent attitude, but he inadvertently taught me a valuable lesson in how to properly use whatismyaddress.org.


After 7 months, my 14 new lovers all moved into my new home. It was a three bedroom house, so it was a tight squeeze, but we all got along so well that it felt like a neverending sleepover party. We’d go on field trips to the Zoo or various museums, and go on whatismyaddress.org to use its “Nearby” feature to find other significant locations in the region.

To say that whatismyaddress.org hadn’t changed my life for the better would be the understatement of the year. It helped me overcome my traumatic brain injury and find love and happiness. But this is just a small part of my life story. 


I am no optimist; I don’t believe in true love…love is fleeting. I have split up with the 14 lovers I had at that moment in my life. I’ve moved on and found other, better, hotter people to live with and love with. I just want to paint a picture for you, dear reader, of the fragility of our feeble existence and how some websites can help us improve our lives.