My Prague coffee pot is named Sheldon, and he's a 75 year old communist jerk.
I named my Prague coffee pot Sheldon, because he's about 25 years old in human years, which is like 75 years old in Eastern Bloc coffee pot years. I figure coffee pots are like dogs, and that they get about three good years for every one of ours. It makes sense, because much like dogs, coffee pots see everything. Everything! I'm sure there's science about why dogs have seven years to every one of ours (coffee pot longevity research has yet to catch up), but I think it's because they spend so much time dealing with our bullshit and watching us make the same mistakes over and over and over.
After 10 years of nonsense, they're just like, you know what human, I'm done with you. You've literally exhausted me to death. I've been through 6 boyfriends, 3 jobs, 157 fights, and 388 tearful nights. We never go on vacation, unless you count that time you told me we were going on an adventure across town, but you really took me to get my balls cut off. Did you know I fell in love with a perky little Cocker Spaniel named Marilyn who was also in the clinic that day? Of course you didn't, because you never asked and you were too busy with Brad, or Bryan, or whatever his name was. I know you can't remember either. Marilyn and I could have had it all. Our puppies would have been adorable. But no. It was about you and your drama. Also, my balls were in jar somewhere. My departure from this earth really should not be a shock to you. Please call my memoirs, "On Paws, Life Lessons from One Pup in the Ruff."
I imagine Sheldon's life has taken a similar trajectory. Who know's what he's seen in his time in this Prague kitchen. Just in the 11 days I've been here, he's witnessed one tax and accounting related meltdown, two highly offensive episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, a series of irritating email interactions, a personal therapy session and a business therapy session. We also had to replace his longtime companion, Stove, who died a dramatic death the first night I arrived. Stove was also about 25, and likely Sheldon's oldest appliance companion.
It's a lot for one pot to handle. He's a mess. He's missing most of his important parts. He doesn't have anything to hold his gasket in place, so it just rests on top of the coffee pot itself. If you're all bleary eyed in the morning and you mindlessly pull the pot out to fill it with water, the whole gasket and yesterday's grounds come with you. He also doesn't have a lid to cover the grounds, so you only realize you've pulled out the pot and the gasket because clumpy grounds suddenly fly everywhere. Then Sheldon gets a string of expletives, which can't be good for his self esteem, and that's why he's quickly heading to the grave.
Poor Sheldon. He got his revenge on me today, though. I began my morning by forgetting to actually pour the water from the coffee pot into Sheldon's little water well. I turned him on, as if he was properly set up, and then when I returned from a bit of morning ROMWOD, I didn't have any coffee because instead Sheldon just boiled water in the most inefficient way possible. I hrmphed at my own idiocy, blamed it on the third vodka soda from the Balkan Bashevel event that I went to last night (a strange gathering of 20 year olds that can only be described as a gypsy rave in a barn, with electronic polka), and poured the steaming hot water back into his water well.
Since Sheldon spent the past 20 minutes desperately trying to make coffee without any water at all, he was so grateful for the little bit of water I gave him that he sucked it all up and violently spit it all out onto the naked hot plate. Instead of unplugging him, waiting a few minutes, and trying again with some cold water, I instead decided that this was simply a challenge that must be overcome. I would not be beat by a janky 1980s coffee maker named Sheldon. I kept pouring, and Sheldon seemed to have calmed down. At this point I realized that coffee grounds were spilled all over the hot plate, so I took a paper towel and tried to clean Sheldon out. Apparently that was too much for him, because right at that moment when my hand was under his spigot, he gurgled and puked up boiling water all over the back of my hand as if to say, I've been around since before the Czech Republic was even a country, and this is how you treat me? Consider this a warning. I expect Kona coffee and Evian from here on out, comrade.
I didn't have the heart to tell Sheldon that the only thing he has to look forward to is a future of tap water and stale Tesco coffee. So, I put him in time out to think about what he did, but now's he's probably just dreaming about the afterlife. In the afterlife, he'll be whole again. He won't have to have his parts ripped out of him every morning, or wonder if he has a purpose beyond helping people to artificially perk up. He won't have to witness the day to day atrocities and drudgery of human existence. Maybe humans will come to him because they want him, not because he has something they need or because he fills the silence. Maybe he'll finally get some respect for paving the way for the next generation. Aeropress and Nescafe would be nothing without him. Maybe he'll finally just get a goddamned day off.
Soon, dear Sheldon, soon.