I pull up in my red sedan. From the outside, things look like they always have.
It’s a beautiful autumn day in Southern Ontario, about the same as most places you’d find in the Midwest.
But, as soon as I limp through the double doors of one of the busier Starbucks in Toronto, Canada, I find I’m in the Mecca of Clownword.
Plastered for the world to see, like it’s the artist of an installation you’re viewing, is a laminated poster asserting the necessity of facial masks.
This madness I’ve grown accustomed to the past eighteen months.
Another poster; this demanding proof of vaccination should you wish to remain inside while drinking your drink.
Ridiculous? You bet your ass.
I walk to the counter. A handsome barista in a fisherman’s toque and Fidel Castro eyeglasses greets me.
He’s pleasant when he takes my order; a Grande Pike topped off with steamed almond milk. I pay him in cash; I do my best to avoid digital currency as long as humanly possible.
After tendering payment, he asks if I plan on sticking around.
I get a sudden urge to tell him to get bent, but I catch myself and realize the barista isn’t my enemy amidst this battle.
He’s a paper pusher, a compliant foot soldier making a measly fifteen bucks an hour serving caffeine-addicted Canadians crack in a plastic cup.
To see how absurd this political narrative has gotten, I reach into my back pocket and hand over my driver’s license.
Then, I pull up a photo on my cell phone proving I have, in fact, been double-vaccinated.
The Somali hipster scrutinizes both like a Doberman Pinscher before finally nodding his head in approval.
I am not in a coffee shop. I am crossing a border into a foreign land. 
A female barista with blue streaks hands me my drink. Before I find a seat, she reminds me to keep my mask on.
‘Yes, Mein Fuhrer.”
I scope the inside of the shop. I see socially distanced tables with patrons dawning masks in between sipping drinks.
‘F this,’ the voice inside my head utters. I quickly make my way for the exit.
A simple act like buying coffee has become complex.
The most disturbing aspect about the above scenario; one can pinpoint what a human being has chosen to do with his/her God-Given body simply by walking into a coffee shop.
A private matter is now public domain. The new normal, they keep telling us.
The Vaxxport is a tattoo, a bat signal that says ‘Hey, I’ve done this to my body, I am compliant’.
Sporting events, musical concerts, watching a movie on the big screen; activities that were so common place two years ago, are now anything but.
Time and time again, those in power pit humans against humans. Today it’s a virus. Soon, who knows?
Free thought is a relic. Individual agency no longer exists.
Brace yourselves my fellow Patriots. The 2020’s are destined to be a wild ride.
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you should have told him to tell management to go sodomise themselves. Its also one more reason that I didn’t immigrate to Canada in 1972 or visit it now.The vaccines are BS,natural acquired immunity is better.
Maybe Texan’s are bolder and have more of a “come and take it” attitude than Canadians or maybe it’s just me but mandates are my line in the sand. My response to your situation is jr high’ish, “make me” wear a mask or get the jab. Someone has to kick the bully’s ass. I’m your huckleberry.
I do hope that final line was delivered like Val Kilmer in Tombstone, sir.
Anyone who’d go to a Starbucks qualifies for assistance under the Mental Welfare clause of the Social Security Act.
Ara, respectfully, your compliance in receiving the experimental gene therapy helped to bring this about.
I know, fedup. believe you me, I know.