These thoughts expressed here aren’t from blind taste tests
or stolen words from some dude’s blog in Minnesota. These are raw. Never seen
before. Just like the crap that floats on top of my glass of Kombucha. Why did
I agree to go on a juice cleanse, anyway? What human, who is not the son of
Christ, would choose to limit their daily intake of solid foods in the name of
health. It’s not a question. It’s not even rhetorical at this point. Seriously,
what convinced me to torture myself into healthier bowel movements except that
I was convinced that I could do…better?
But what I should say is THANK YOU, citizens of the United
States, for buying into the
Kombucha frenzy and selling floatable yeast in a drink that resembles flat
Fanta. It’s all about probiotics these days. Listen to Jamie Lee Curtis, yo.
She knows. She’s half man/half woman so she would be a viable spokesperson for
yogurt. Naturally. Here in Central Oregon, I’ve seen refill depots for Kombucha
popping up in stranger places than every grocery and coffee shop in town. The
car wash? Yes.
And here is where my true fear of Kombucha consumption
arises. Let’s say I get a refill and buy my carwash and drive in, place my
front left tire in the appropriate slot and jam the car into neutral. And then
it’s me and my live cultures getting locked inside the wash box and something
goes wrong and I throw the stuff all over my new lululemon yoga pants and
there’s no way of getting the protein blob out of my $78 stretchy pants. Then,
in the midst of this travesty I realize I can’t at all afford lululemon or
Kombucha on the salary of an English major. Damn you, Keats! I fell in love
with your educated language my freshman year of college and here you are, still
in my head, haunting the pages of my 2013, barely educated prose (if you’ll
allow me to call it that).
