Last week, Haystack reporters were positioned in Tunnel City Coffee Shop where we witnessed Jeremy Pickles ‘23 unabashedly order a small hot chocolate, extra milk. We stopped what we were doing —which was definitely not looking for the tunnels— to ask Pickles what prompted him to order that.
“I just like it I guess,” said Pickles, like a total dweeb loser. Pickles stood at 6’4,” a fully grown 20-year-old-man, with a tiny hot chocolate meant for some kind of baby in his massive paw, clearly just returned from some kind of “sports” practice, and reportedly on the way to see his girlfriend later that day.
We clutched our plain black coffees, extra salt-–which we only ordered because they refused to serve us whiskey on the rocks (and we meant real rocks)— in abject anger. Pickles refused to comment in response to several of our questions, including “Oh yeah? Do you miss your mommy?” and “Why don’t you order a big boy drink” and “If you like hot chocolate so much, why don’t you marry it?” His silence was deafening.
He finally left after we tried to “here-comes-the-airplane” (ironically) a chocolate chip muffin into his mouth, which only didn’t work because we couldn’t reach that high.
We asked Tunnel employees if anyone had ever ordered something as ridiculous as that before, but they weren’t that helpful because they were still caught up on that whole whiskey thing. One employee told us it was “pretty normal,” and “actually on the menu.” Another reported “it would be better if you left.”
Because we are good reporters, who care about their jobs, we called the local pre-school to let them know they had obviously lost a toddler off their walking rope, and that he was somewhere loose on Spring Street. Then we hung up and answered no follow-up questions. His girlfriend, Erica Bubs, declined to respond to our line of questioning, in which we emailed her twenty times with the subject line “your boyfriend is a little baby boy.” The body of the email was blank. She also declined follow up questioning, which was one last email that read: “when you’re ready to date a grown-up, we’ll be in our satire publication office.”
Several reports from extremely credible sources (us holding up a newspaper in front of our faces with eye holes cut out) came in a few minutes later of Pickles drinking his silly little drink at a table at Spoon. We were surprised his mommy let him out of the high-chair. We didn’t even want one anyway. A hot chocolate, that is. A nice warm drink that tastes like chocolate, with a big dollop of whipped cream? On a chilly day? P’shaw. No Thanks. We eat our coffee beans raw by the handful, like grownups.