Do you see any coffee?

Anywhere near me? Is there a freshly-emptied demitasse with a bit of used lemon rind on its saucer? Have your keen eyes observed a still-damp brown ring on this stack of wretched pages? Do I smell of espresso, perhaps? Is there even the tiniest hint, the barest wisp of a suggestion, that I have in fact managed to put any amount of caffeine into my body? Does my general demeanor, my carriage, my haircut, present to you the aspect of someone who has had even a passing "good morning" with any kind of xanthine alkaloid whatsoever?

No? Say that again, "No." Listen to it. You hear that? That is the sound of the negative. It is the denial of all conjecture! The definitive answer to all of these questions. And do you see this? Yes, you should take a step back, I certainly would. This is my Pre-caffeinated Stabbing Knife. It was given to me by Alfred Dyos Romani, Lord of Issington and Heir To The Fortunes of Dunleavy, who relieved a Hottentot chieftain of both the knife and his head while on holiday in Bechuanaland. Upon presenting it to me, he told me that it has a peculiar but most satisfying excess of weight towards the broadening tip--you see that, here?--which gives it a surprising and smooth carry-through.

Now, be a dear and fetch me an espresso, would you? Thanks ever so much.