Generate a Stand-Up Routine

(Lights up. Comedian walks on stage, holding a coffee cup, sips, grimaces.)

You know, I was trying to be healthy. Cut out sugar, no more snacks, just water and... this. (Holds up the coffee.) I thought I’d be a saint. Instead, I’m just a caffeinated gremlin with a minor anxiety disorder and an existential crisis about the quality of my morning brew.

So I bought this fancy "artisanal" coffee. You know, the kind where the barista looks at you like you’ve insulted their grandmother just by ordering a latte. The bag said “single-origin, ethically sourced, hand-roasted by moonlight.” I said, “Okay, fine.” I paid $8.50 for a cup that looked like it came from a unicorn’s tear. And I took one sip—sigh—and I’m like, "This tastes like… sadness. And regret. And maybe a little bit of overpriced dirt."

But here’s the kicker: I still can’t get my mind off the price. I’m sitting there, sipping this $8.50 cup of liquid depression, and I’m thinking, “I could’ve bought a whole sandwich with this.” A sandwich! With meat! And maybe even a pickle! Not a one-inch sliver of pickled cucumber on a $20 salad. I’m not saying I’m against luxury—I love luxury! But when I’m paying more for coffee than I paid for my first pair of shoes… that’s not luxury, that’s crisis mode.

And don’t even get me started on the social pressure. I walk into a café, I order my $8.50 “artisanal” coffee, and suddenly I’m a character. I’m not just a person—I’m a trend. A lifestyle. I’m now the guy who “curates his mornings.” I don’t even know what that means! I just want to drink coffee without crying!

So I go to the bathroom, right? I’m washing my hands, and I catch my reflection. I look like a man who’s been up for 17 hours, hasn’t slept, and is now emotionally invested in a bean. And I’m like, “Who are you? And why are you letting a $9 cup of coffee define your self-worth?”

I don’t know. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe I just need a nap. Or a real sandwich. With a pickle.

But honestly? I’d rather have a $2 cup of coffee from the gas station, where the barista says “Thanks, have a nice day” like they actually mean it. No moonlight roasting, no ethically sourced soul-crushing, just… coffee. And the kind of peace that comes from knowing you’re not being charged for your emotional baggage.

So next time you’re standing in line, staring at the $12 “craft cold brew,” ask yourself: Am I buying coffee… or am I buying a therapist session I didn’t sign up for?

(Pauses, takes a sip of coffee, winces again.)

…And honestly? I’m still not sure. But I am sure I want a pickle.

(Exits stage, muttering to self.)
Pickle. I need a pickle.

(Lights fade.)