Saturday, September 04, 2004

 

I demand satisfaction.

Please permit me an intensely personal gripe. I'd like to know why there are no flippin' Jamba Juices in the Washington, D.C. area.

Oh, sure: their website says there are, but each local Jamba is in a lousy location. I think one of them is listed in what I must assume is the George Washington University student center. Most, however, are situated in Whole Foods grocery stores.

Anyways, I got addicted to their smoothies while I lived in L.A., and they're one of the very few personal pleasures that I enjoy that aren't seriously harmful and/or spiritually degrading to my body. But the inconvenience of their D.C. locations really chaps my hide.

Whole Foods invariably sites their stores in the "trendy" locations around town, with "trendy" lousy parking. No surprise there, as their customers all appear to be very "trendy" people. I personally feel the "trend" involves slouching towards a diverse yet boring universe devoid of all things that actually taste good, you know, right out of the box. But hey, I'm no Crunchy Con.

The entire organic grocery store thing depresses me. From the moment you walk inside, each store seems to say, "We're better than you are, you pathetic sack of Taco Bell snarfing filth." Walking down the aisles feels like I've entered a bizarro universe, where all the normal brands have been replaced with remarkably-accurate-yet-slightly-off simulations of the normal brands. It's like what the Soviets did when they ripped off our Space Shuttle.

Next time you're in one of these grocery stores, here's a fun game to play: count all the name brand products you would find in a normal grocery store. They're in there, trust me. Nobody's been able to yet build an organic Little Debbie Swiss Cake Roll, although I hear the boys in Chiba City are working on a prototype. It involves Soylent Red, however, so I think there might be a law barring imports.

Anyways-- long story short: spread the word, I want more Jamba Juice franchises in D.C., and I want them in strip malls that I can drive to in my ozone-shredding automobile. I'd write them myself, but after the way overblown Redondo Beach pizza bread "incident" in 2001, they now discard my letters down in the mailroom.

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