In the half-lotus position I sit, typing this out and enjoying a lucid dream in which I am being carried upon the "shoulders" of a glinting, dew-speckled mass of Fire "Siphon Method" coffee cans. I am their hero and king, and they thrust me toward the heavens to acknowledge my supremacy. Though mute, they employ a technique known as "hralding" to insert thoughts into my head. Hralding is excruciating to the uninitiated, but I prove resilient. This quality, my stubborn resistance to agony, is one of the reasons I have been annointed king.

A chorus of angelic, if tinny, voices explodes in my auditory cortex: "O handsome king, we have noted and wish to convey our respect for your restraint when riding up escalators behind saucy women. Barely a flicker of the eyes asswards." "I know," I tell them, not yet having learned the art of hralding, "It's exhausting." The voices emerge again, in 700-part harmony: "Master, we are curious. Is it not possible that you are suppressing desires that are wholly natural?" I tilt my head, pondering the question. "So you're telling me I should fix my gaze upon these bottoms without reservation? That it's OK to do so because it's 'natural?' I'm married, you know." The voices chuckle. The chuckling (tittering?) persists for an uncomfortable 45 seconds, maybe a minute. "Let's just say that you won't hear any complaints from us if you happen to allow your eyes to linger on a passing derriere, o tall, strong and smart one. The wife never has to know."

I decide that I don't like these guys. The overly long laugh gave me the collywobbles and set off major alarm bells. And I didn't ask to be their fucking king. This is all wrong. "Put me down," I tell them, trying to sound royal but betrayed by my mobile Adam's apple. "But why ... king?" they reply, the last word heavy with sarcasm and followed by what are definitely titters. Then, with the malice sometimes witnessed among possessed marionnettes, they intone,"Doncha wanna play no more?" in a deep, rumbling hell-baritone. No, as a matter of fact, I don't wanna play no more. Shit, I think they want to kill me. "Put me down, goddammit!" I bleat, my desperation obvious. "Now!" I bellow. The cans part like startled cockroaches and I drop to the ground, cracking my head on the cement floor. When I awaken, I find just one small can in the now-carpeted room, not the hundreds of giant, hralding four-footers of a few moments (hours? days?) ago. Gorilla-like, I lumber over to the overturned container and tentatively prod it with an index finger and emit a short, relieved sob when it doesn't respond. Remembering that I have a deadline to meet for a coffee review, I snap open the can and sample the contents. Though it touts itself as having a "clean, clear" flavor that is enhanced by special syphoning techniques, I can't discern any real difference between it and standard canned brews. In short, it is sweet and creamy. Great design, though.

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