Having downed his fourth Imperial Stout of the day, the wild eyed charlatan from Voldvrostronglaky belched and hollered for the Czarina to enter his chamber and bend herself to his will. The economy was a wreck and revolt was just around the corner. Nicky the Czar dude was off playing soldier like any pale nobleman with a hemorrhagic skin condition would. Such were the final days of the old empire. Reactionary, decadent, sputnik, stroganoff, weird, and drunk. But even as the proletariat countryside labored under inhuman conditions and the threat of being sent to a futile war in the east, they wisely took the time to slam back an Imperial Stout or two. After all, life can be a real 'suka' as they said in the old country. Big, black, bourgeois, bolshoy, belligerent, buxom, and scary. This is our version of the end of an era in a bottle.

Coffee is my shepherd; I shall not doze. It maketh me to wake in green pastures. It leadeth me beyond the sleeping masses. It restoreth my brain, It leadeth me in the paths of consciousness for it's name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of sleep, I will fear no artificial sweetener for thou art with me; Thy cream and thy sugar they comfort me. Thou preparest a carafe before me in the presence of my zzz's, Thou anointest my day with sunlight; My cup runneth over. Surely richness and flavor shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of Cappuccino forever... Let us sip... or whatever...