Bests & Worsts Reviews from Amazon

We had been on the road for nearly a week, touring Amish country and had finally made our way out of Wisconsin. For the entire week we had been on a cooking magazine sponsored trip to sample cheeses, little did my employer know that I was in fact lactose-intolerant. The cheese had wrecked my system like a drunk oil tanker captain in Alaska. I was paying for the cheese curds and cheddar with some serious constipation. No hope was in sight and driving around/camping in a tear drop trailer meant that only public commodes were my sanctuary. We stopped over in a campsite, nestled amongst tall aspen birch and beyond that, snow topped mountains where you could hear the sound of werewolves howling in the distance. A camp site over was an old man, sitting on a stump smoking a long pipe. His long white beard hide much of his face but you could tell, this guy had ridden stallions over rainbows and swam with piranha. Our gaze met and he beckoned to me with his hand. I walked over and though I only remember one stump, another one appeared for me to place my puckered butt. When i sat down, I smelled a sweet earthiness, floating on the breeze. He looked at me, and for the first time I noticed that one of this eyes, was scared, turned a milky white, but as if it worked without flaw, he stared deeper, reaching the celestial dust that settled on the bottom recesses of my soul. From out a nebulous fog that was our cerebrial connection, he broke the conduit that bonded us. He said, “you need what is lingering on the breeze my boy”. He pointed his staff and told me to fetch the French press. I made my way to the casual looking van and found a Stanley French press waiting, the water was hot, the coffee had been steeping and the smell of earth, fire, wind triggered in me a feeling of freedom. We poured cup after cup and swigged the blackness down. Hotter than the lake of fire where el Diablo himself skinny dips, smoother than the coat of a centaur, nuttier than my great uncle Percivil, stronger than dragons glass. The press perfectly filtered out all the grounds leaving us with only the nectar of Odin. All of sudden, I felt a stirring. A dam was being taken down, the Berlin was was crumbling, the foundations of the earth quivered. It was time and again the old man, from motioned me but this time to a small building. I stood up and began running, when I could hear him laugh from behind his long white beard. It echoed throughout the aspens and thundered amongst the hills. A wind began to swirl the leaves around me, the sky grew pink and as I glanced over my shoulder, the old man had vanished. When I got to the building, I found that it was a bathroom, empty, clean and ready for me to do my duty. A weeks worth of cheese exited me quicker than a company of airborne infantrymen from a C-130 . Had I not met the old man and his Stanley French press, I might have gone on living life of a dying man. I went on to master the art of ninjitsu and paint a masterpiece that now resides in the louvre. I ordered my own Stanley French press, I use it to make coffee everyday and everyday I grow stronger.