I just experienced my very first Jamba Juice and I must say, I think I checked my manhood at the door. It began when I won a $5.00 gift card from my second job. I have never been more ecstatic to win anything in my entire life.
My experience began with the jazzy, intoxicating tunes of the new David Archuletta album blaring in my ears as I entered the establishment. With that nonsense at unbelievable decibels, I could barely think as I stared up at the big board.
Selecting a Jamba is not as easy as it seems. First, you must select your combination and then you must select a free “booster”. Of course I stood there, stone faced, with arms crossed, trying to put the appropriate combination into my lame brain. I finally decided upon a bizarre combination of pineapple, mango and peach that sounded half edible.
My order went as expected. The manboy that took my order had bangs longer than my wife’s and he undoubtedly had just been picketing against Prop 8. His posture was poor and he leaned heavily on one leg as if my order was the least important thing in the world at that moment. Apparently I passed his snobbery test because my order actually did go through. I did feel like a total idiot when I asked for what is really called a “Ma-Ma-Ma-Mango”.
I waited for my fruity Mo-cocktail on what had to be an eight-foot high stool. It took me 45 seconds to even climb up that thing. I realized right then and there that this was not my kind of place. The uppity attitude by the eight-dollar an hour workers, the BMW’s in the parking lot, the pastels clashing against brighter pastels, it was all too much. If I were a drinker, I would definitely be a beer and pretzels man all the way; not some fruity martini with an umbrella sticking out of it. Yes, I am sure I have paid my last visit to the land of the Jamba.
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