Jamba Juice and I ... we have an understanding.
And it is this: I go and pick something up from that establishment ... and at some point something goes wrong.
This is the way it's gone for as long as I can remember. You want proof? I present my case ...
For the last three years on or about the boss's birthday, "The Tradition" has been to trek over to a local Jamba Juice and pick up the drinks of choice for the entire office staff. Not a frequenter of the place, I've no idea what to get. Truth be told, the place is rather perplexing to me. Energy shots and protein powders and milk-fed wheat weeds and dollops of gordness knows what.
But ... I digress .....
Year One? The orders got all screwed up. Year Two? One hour wait ... and the drinks leaked all over the place on the way back to the office. Year Three .. this year?
Well, things were going rather swimmingly for a bit. The boss was pleased with his refreshment ... his assistant dug the new "5 Fruit Frenzy" she ordered ... and my Tourette's-infused computer operator was enjoying some pomegranate concoction containing "monkey juice" or somesuch.
As I was leaving the office for the day, I spilled my barely-sipped drink all over the building entrance, causing peach flavor to decorate the entry in a drab orange spray pattern that probably would have thrilled a crime scene splatter expert.
Of the few times I've been to a Jamba Juice of my own accord (and when I say this I mean with friends or family) some other mishap has inevitably occurred.
You see: Jamba Juice and I ... we have an understanding:
I go there and the establishment exacts some sort of inexplicable revenge upon me .....
..................... Ruprecht ( STOP )