Jamba Juice & Tattoos

Marcus Faalepo
Oct 21, 2019 · 2 min read

As I looked up from my one of my many stupors, two flashy-looking dudes had just entered my dead-end job. Loud. Arrogant. Smelling like Axe. Although it doesn’t matter, like at all, I’ll let you guys decide what race they were, assuming you haven’t done so already.

Anyway, the two said dudes came in and were talking all types of brilliant nonsense; ranging from “man I beat the dog shit out of him” to “dawg fuck you, that was mine!”

Mind you, these guys stood at least 6 ft. 4, and a generous 227 pounds. Copious amounts of tattoos on their arms and legs. They looked like Dwight Howard. I mean both of them. They both looked like Dwight Howard, without the underlying insanity in their eyes.

As someone who knows how to mind their business, my head bowed back into my work, praying for a speedy shift. I paid no more attention to any of the shit coming out of their mouths until I noticed the shit that was in their hands.

Jamba Juice.

Now I don’t ever want to judge someone’s character when we haven’t had an interaction and I understand that I am, in fact, doing so. But it’s hard not to feel insulted when someone has the nerve to be so obnoxious in a public place while holding a little fruity, organic, blended smoothie in their hands.

Next time you don’t want to give a fuck when you’re in public, at least have the decency to finish your drink. It’s hard to look intimidating with Jamba Juice in your hands.

Written by

Fifth grade spelling-bee champion. Your mother’s favorite Samoan dish. Co-host of The Polytickin’ Podcast.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade