The morning coffee run is a sacred ritual. It is the fuel that powers the economy and keeps us from screaming at our coworkers before 10 AM. Most of us follow the unwritten rules of society during this delicate time. You wait your turn, you order quickly, and you get out of the way so the person behind you can get their caffeine fix. But there is always one person who thinks they are the main character of the coffee shop, and their time is apparently worth more than yours.
One Reddit user shared a story about a “Coffee Shop Karen”—male edition—who decided that waiting in line like a peasant was beneath him. This guy had a move. A slippery, annoying, “whoops I just need to ask something” move. He would bypass the line of five or six weary souls, march right up to the counter, and pretend to have a burning question about cup sizes. Then, while he was “already up there,” he would conveniently just place his order.
It is the oldest trick in the book, and it is infuriating. He did this four times. Four separate mornings of jumping the queue while everyone else stood there, caffeine-deprived and seething. Nobody said anything because, let’s be honest, starting a fight before your first espresso is a level of energy none of us possess. We just glare into the back of his head and fantasy-fire him from his job. But our narrator decided enough was enough.
If this guy wanted to play games, he was about to meet the final boss of petty. The narrator didn’t yell. They didn’t cause a scene. They simply adopted the same strategy but weaponized it with sheer, unadulterated incompetence. Whenever the Line Cutter started his approach, our hero would sprint out of line and beat him to the counter.
And then, the performance began. The narrator would unleash the most annoying barrage of questions known to barista-kind. “What is the difference between a latte and a cappuccino again?” “Which milk froths better, oat or soy?” “Tell me about the history of this muffin.” They occupied the space the Line Cutter wanted to steal, and they filled it with nonsense.
It is brilliant because it is unassailable. You can’t get mad at someone for asking questions, right? That is exactly what the Line Cutter was pretending to do. But the narrator took it a step further. After wasting precious minutes and blocking the guy’s path, they would hit him with the ultimate pivot: “Actually, let me get back in line and think about it.”
I can feel the awkwardness radiating off the screen. The Line Cutter is left standing there, momentum killed, looking like an absolute idiot while the narrator smugly returns to their rightful spot. He couldn’t cut in because the “question time” was over, and he couldn’t complain because he was technically trying to do the same thing. It is a logic trap of his own making.
It only took a week. A week of being out-annoyed was all it took to break him. He started waiting in line like a normal, functioning member of society. The narrator didn’t just get revenge; they performed a public service. They rehabilitated a line-cutter through the power of weaponized ignorance.
So, is the narrator the ahole? Absolutely not. This is the kind of chaotic good energy the world needs more of. You didn’t block a man from getting coffee; you taught a grown adult that his time isn’t more valuable than everyone else’s. And you did it without ever raising your voice. That is not just petty; that is art.