YOU MAY THINK I LEFT THE PORCH TO DO THESE, BUT I DIDN'T

This is a collection of old sketches of coffee people that I didn't draw well enough the first time around (I know! Hard to believe, isn't it?) that I redrew in Painter. So I'm still sitting right here on the porch, casting an admiring gaze on all I survey. Actually, I haven't surveyed any of this, and have no plans to. I spent a summer on a survey crew once, and that was enough surveying to do me for the next several decades. The younger members of the crew (which consisted, at the time, of me) were expected to plant wooden stakes into the rock-hard ground with a sledgehammer while the others stood around eating donuts and talking about how Del Unser couldn't hit a curve ball to save his life. But I had a secret weapon: rank incompetence. I started out tap-tapping the stakes with the sledgehammer as if it were a tack hammer (or "like a girl", as the rest of the team concurred, having taken an informal poll.) Once they showed me how to swing the hammer over my head and bring it crashing down onto the stake, I proceeded to the endgame. I swung with all my might, aiming for that tiny stakelet, but I might as well have been blindfolded and spun around till I was dizzy before swinging. My shots mostly pounded the ground around the stake to a Death Valley-like hardpan while leaving the stake in pristine condition, re-usable another time, although the rest of the crew refused to acknowledge this as a silver lining. Occasionally, though, by sheer chance, my hammer would hit the stake a glancing blow, and send pointy shards flying toward said crew, who dropped their donuts and jumped underneath the pickup truck, cursing. After one of these missiles struck the crew chief in the forehead, creating a fascinating but unappreciated bindi, he shouted, "Jesus God, you damn hippie! Didn't they teach you nothing in college?" To which I replied "Golly, no, I had to decide between Sledgehammer 101 and Wealth Management For People Who Don't Have To Work On Survey Crews Their Whole Fucking Lives 300, and I'll be damned, it looks like I picked the wrong one, huh?" Or wished I had said that, but now I'm glad I didn't because now I really appreciate people who actually work for a living, allowing me to while away my time on porches sketching and counting butterflies.

Epilogue: the conclusion of the story, which I forgot to add--thank god for epilogues, huh?--is that the crew put me in charge of writing down the numbers and adding them up, after having discovered, after another brief internal survey, that none of them could do arithmetic. So while they labored out in the sun, I sat in the cab of the pickup idly wondering when the powers that be would get off their lazy asses and invent blogs, so I could pretend to be doing something useful.