The Lore of the Green Apron
Steady thy hand, young scribe... For the memories of a Starbucks
old rock it with vigilant force. The world of the Green Apron is faltering,
like a tower built weak at the base, and I must recount the tales of yore, lest
I forget.
A maiden, a mere emissary, spoke to me a day or two ago. She brought tales
of her Starbucks yonder in the hills of Versailles. That which I heard must have
unlocked my tongue, for I began to sing the songs of Starbucks passed. Days that
age to oblivion... Days of the Golden Age now twisted into a dark mesh of darker times.
Back when I was King. King Starbucks. Yes...That's what called me.
A mere lad, I entered that kiosk. Burdened by troubles from which I escaped,
I was taken into the hands of a strange and wonderous family. Though not bound
biologically, there was a sense of unity, of values, of morality strong in these men
and women clad in green. I confided in them. And together I was reborn. With Pat
the Jovial, Sir Faisal the Great-hearted, Seth the Eager, Christopher Dicken the
Scribe, and many other followers of the Green Apron, we set out to do good.
And good we did. Soon after, other followers joined us in the Green Apron ways. There
was Karen, the well tipper; And there was Roz, painter of canines; and of course Rob,
the minstrel's supplier.
We let our glory shine, and I was most humbly dubbed King of Starbucks as my name tag
was set upon my proud chest and a visor of jewels placed upon my head. Sir Christopher
was leaving great tributes of his triumphs, marking "Chris Waz Here" for all to see.
Songs and tales were sung of Patrick and the tragic Mocha spill of '06, was it? My mind
is already boggled by the recent horrors of an unfamiliar Starbucks. And who could forget
the old seer, whom we dubbed Old Man Winters, who watched over our lands through both
strife and victory.
And we placed our laws in a notebook: that any desiring to cast themselves among us
must first drink of the Crappuccino, a drink so foul that only the greatest, most strongest
of will can enter into the knighthood of the Green Apron. It's been foretold that the foam
alone will kill you. Tolesser men: it has.
And together we faced the darkest of ages: the replacing of Donna, the leaving of Old Man Winters,
and the burden of the coming and going of several unruly baristas. But no burden could
break apart the Knights of the Green Apron. We swore to this on an oath. And oath passed
down from the ancient texts of the Green Apron Book. And there it was written by a scribe under
the pseudonym Jefferson Starbucks:
We built this Starbucks. We Built this Starbucks on Heart and Soul.
We, the Knights, also took our ways outside our borders. In rounds we called the Nights
of the Bux, we traveled near and far expressing the values we so strongly upheld. From
Buffalo Wild Wings, to the theaters to see Rush Hour 3, and even to the regions of shadow
at Camelot West. It seemed like this band of brothers would never fall.
But I was wrong. Time is the crack in the wall, the hole in the dike... And our rally of Knights
disappeared one by one. First Pat the Jovial, who went off to seek a higher education in the
pub running business, then Sir Christopher, who had to journey to the distant land of Ohio.
Soon afterward Seth fell to the trade of innkeeping, and in the more darker times Faisal fled
to the protection of the pharmacy, where he found a safe haven in the comfort of a family
trade.
The last of the followers and I then waited as a black cloud covered the land. Rumors were spreading
from every corner of the planet of this new threat, this terror that was coming to conquer.
We did not budge. We were trained not to fear. We were barista certified. And slowly
the shadows of a terrible age reared its ugly head.
The last of our kind, I made a stand against a wave of upcoming evil. A new power
replaced our rock; our fortress of solemnity. And the shadow appeared before me,
and standing proudly armored in my green apron and visor, the name tag that gave
me the title of King Starbucks was ripped from my breast. The chains of obedience were
wrapped around me following the others, and the whips of the new ways lashed at our
backside. Once a king, now a slave. If one could die from the shame, a buried man I
would be.
We are now a numbered race. And I fear this lore I now present before you will
cause nothing but retaliation in the future: but our tale must be told. Soon, one of the
last men to uphold the values of the Green Apron: Sir Chadwick the Stone-willed, will
depart to a land not covered by shadow, and I will be the last. A revival I fear will never
occur, for tempted am I to find a paradise outside this Dark Age as well. The future
of this land I know not, but the past is a tale one should never forget: for we upheld
the values of the Green Apron Book. We built the foundation for which every barista
should follow. So I say to thee, baristas of the future: Give thanks to the Knights, of the
Green Apron. And stand!
old rock it with vigilant force. The world of the Green Apron is faltering,
like a tower built weak at the base, and I must recount the tales of yore, lest
I forget.
A maiden, a mere emissary, spoke to me a day or two ago. She brought tales
of her Starbucks yonder in the hills of Versailles. That which I heard must have
unlocked my tongue, for I began to sing the songs of Starbucks passed. Days that
age to oblivion... Days of the Golden Age now twisted into a dark mesh of darker times.
Back when I was King. King Starbucks. Yes...That's what called me.
A mere lad, I entered that kiosk. Burdened by troubles from which I escaped,
I was taken into the hands of a strange and wonderous family. Though not bound
biologically, there was a sense of unity, of values, of morality strong in these men
and women clad in green. I confided in them. And together I was reborn. With Pat
the Jovial, Sir Faisal the Great-hearted, Seth the Eager, Christopher Dicken the
Scribe, and many other followers of the Green Apron, we set out to do good.
And good we did. Soon after, other followers joined us in the Green Apron ways. There
was Karen, the well tipper; And there was Roz, painter of canines; and of course Rob,
the minstrel's supplier.
We let our glory shine, and I was most humbly dubbed King of Starbucks as my name tag
was set upon my proud chest and a visor of jewels placed upon my head. Sir Christopher
was leaving great tributes of his triumphs, marking "Chris Waz Here" for all to see.
Songs and tales were sung of Patrick and the tragic Mocha spill of '06, was it? My mind
is already boggled by the recent horrors of an unfamiliar Starbucks. And who could forget
the old seer, whom we dubbed Old Man Winters, who watched over our lands through both
strife and victory.
And we placed our laws in a notebook: that any desiring to cast themselves among us
must first drink of the Crappuccino, a drink so foul that only the greatest, most strongest
of will can enter into the knighthood of the Green Apron. It's been foretold that the foam
alone will kill you. Tolesser men: it has.
And together we faced the darkest of ages: the replacing of Donna, the leaving of Old Man Winters,
and the burden of the coming and going of several unruly baristas. But no burden could
break apart the Knights of the Green Apron. We swore to this on an oath. And oath passed
down from the ancient texts of the Green Apron Book. And there it was written by a scribe under
the pseudonym Jefferson Starbucks:
We built this Starbucks. We Built this Starbucks on Heart and Soul.
We, the Knights, also took our ways outside our borders. In rounds we called the Nights
of the Bux, we traveled near and far expressing the values we so strongly upheld. From
Buffalo Wild Wings, to the theaters to see Rush Hour 3, and even to the regions of shadow
at Camelot West. It seemed like this band of brothers would never fall.
But I was wrong. Time is the crack in the wall, the hole in the dike... And our rally of Knights
disappeared one by one. First Pat the Jovial, who went off to seek a higher education in the
pub running business, then Sir Christopher, who had to journey to the distant land of Ohio.
Soon afterward Seth fell to the trade of innkeeping, and in the more darker times Faisal fled
to the protection of the pharmacy, where he found a safe haven in the comfort of a family
trade.
The last of the followers and I then waited as a black cloud covered the land. Rumors were spreading
from every corner of the planet of this new threat, this terror that was coming to conquer.
We did not budge. We were trained not to fear. We were barista certified. And slowly
the shadows of a terrible age reared its ugly head.
The last of our kind, I made a stand against a wave of upcoming evil. A new power
replaced our rock; our fortress of solemnity. And the shadow appeared before me,
and standing proudly armored in my green apron and visor, the name tag that gave
me the title of King Starbucks was ripped from my breast. The chains of obedience were
wrapped around me following the others, and the whips of the new ways lashed at our
backside. Once a king, now a slave. If one could die from the shame, a buried man I
would be.
We are now a numbered race. And I fear this lore I now present before you will
cause nothing but retaliation in the future: but our tale must be told. Soon, one of the
last men to uphold the values of the Green Apron: Sir Chadwick the Stone-willed, will
depart to a land not covered by shadow, and I will be the last. A revival I fear will never
occur, for tempted am I to find a paradise outside this Dark Age as well. The future
of this land I know not, but the past is a tale one should never forget: for we upheld
the values of the Green Apron Book. We built the foundation for which every barista
should follow. So I say to thee, baristas of the future: Give thanks to the Knights, of the
Green Apron. And stand!