Kylie

Kylie had been a Starbucks barista for three years. Three long years. She had survived pumpkin spice season, Frappuccino rushes, and one customer who ordered a “hot iced latte, extra frozen.” She had smiled through every ridiculous order, every “I said oat milk, not almond milk,” every smug tap of a platinum Amex card. But on this particular Tuesday morning, something inside Kylie snapped. It started with Karen #1, who demanded Kylie “stir counterclockwise for better flavor.” Fine. Then Karen #2 returned her latte three times because the foam was “emotionally flat.” Karen #3 argued that Starbucks prices were higher than when she was in college in 1987. Karen #4 wanted Kylie to “spiritually cleanse the cup” before pouring. By the time Karen #5 rolled up, wearing oversized sunglasses and a fur coat in September, Kylie’s eye was twitching like a Morse code machine. Karen #5 squinted at her triple venti, half-caf, ristretto, no-foam, soy latte with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla and one-and-a-half Splendas, then declared: “Um, yeah, this tastes like you hate your job.” And that was it. The final straw. Kylie slammed the cup down, foam erupting like a caffeinated volcano, and screamed: “You know what?! Take your triple-whatever half-whatever latte and shove it up your oat milk-loving—!” She didn’t stop there. Oh no. Kylie unleashed a glorious tirade of profanity so creative sailors would’ve taken notes. Customers froze, frappes halfway to their mouths. A toddler dropped his cake pop in shock. The manager tried to intervene, but Kylie pointed at him and shouted, “You can take this job and shove it where the sun don’t frappin’ shine!” And with that, she ripped off her apron like a WWE champion tossing a belt, stormed out of Starbucks, and vowed never to froth another latte again.