File Under: Complaints
Dear Raw Cane Super Juice Raw Sugar Cane Juices™,
I am writing to voice my grave disappointment with the service I was given at your Silver Lake Hipsters-Only Farmer's Market stand. I approached your stand having bought $23 of artisanal cheeses from the stand directly across yours, and I was greeted with a classic Coldstare from a mindless bitch I'll call Erica, your "raw-ista." There were some spa-mouthwash-cup-sized samples of your juice set out on the table. I picked one up and tried it. It was disgusting, but I thought, "Hey, I'm interested in raw cane juice just like I'm interested in biodeisel and vegan cheese and having a prefabricated mini-planter full of struggling herbs and tomatoes in my yard so that my hipster friends can think I'm more hip than they are." So I tried another one; Erica disaffectedly told me it was "mint-sage." It tasted quite like spa mouthwash. As I was savoring this complex notion that graced my palate, a young man perhaps five years younger than myself walked up to the stand. He clearly was in need of nutrients; his sheer white tank hung loosely from his emaciated and tattoed torso; his vintage hat fell down over his fleamarket-found Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses which seemed to be slipping right off of his tiny, starved little noggin. So I understood when Erica started totally showering him with juice samples and congeniality. As she "hung out" there practically kissing the many jewels on his rocked-out hipster-band fingers, I chose a 16-oz. bottle of the plain juice ($7.00) and ordered a "grass" smoothie ($7.50) from the nice older man at the stand to whom Erica barked her orders. "Try this," Erica said to the local-rock god, "it's blueberry!" She produced a larger dixie cup from behind some promotional material on the stand. It piqued my interest, so I asked her if I could try that too. "Well, actually, these sample are for customers like him." She gestured to the 3 16-oz bottles he had chosen. At this point, I said nothing, returning Erica's coldstare until she felt too uncomfortable to deal with me, passing me off to the nice old man. I was stupefied by the fact that I had been denied a 2-sip sample of blueberry cane juice because I only bought $14.50 worth of juice that would all fit into the largest glass I have at my house. And to really top it off, apparently that guy was a priority customer because he spent $21.00??!!?? I was pissed. But I calmly looked down at my nonstylized, untorn Gap jeans, my boring 4-year-old white Nike running shoes, and my plain, unfitted green henley shirt. I was clearly not invited to Erica's party. I looked up at her as she rang up my order, and I stared through my Loehmann's-bought Cole-Haan tortoise-shell sunglasses, through her Forever 21-shoplifted oversized "zany" houndstooth sunglasses, and made contact with one of her vacant cow-eyes. She shuddered, handed me my change, and whipped around, hitting my face with the halter-tie on the back of her backless lycra dress from American Apparel.
Now, you may have some policy stating that for a "prime" sample, one must purchase over $20 of juice droplets. But how do you expect me to make that purchase if Erica won't even let me try it out because I don't look cool enough? You know, that's not even the point. Your juice freakin' sucks. It takes like Stevia; it's too sweet. That's why people who've harvested cane since ancient times never made pure raw cane juice! So here we have a product that sucks, sold by people who suck, more specifically people suck anorexic man-hipster's dicks. And to think, I'd probably think it tasted good if your Erica wasn't such a goddam wretched bitch, humiliating me in front of another customer after I bought $14.50 in the form of two glasses of juice.
It's too bad. I went to your website and saw the picture of you people in your overalls and Converse, and I thought, "I could be friends with these nice farmers." "I could dig this overpriced crap." I could even have told my friends to go to your stand and wait in the line while Erica takes her lazy old time pouring grass smoothies while purring at neo-gothic musicians and designer sneaker-freaks. But I'm sorry, guys... I have to tell you, I will never patronize your business ever again. We have too much between us now for me to ever turn around. Shall we meet in another life, perhaps I will drink Raw Cane Super Juice™. But shall Erica be there, I will be certain that perdition is where I've arrived.
Sincerely,
K. Moore
I am writing to voice my grave disappointment with the service I was given at your Silver Lake Hipsters-Only Farmer's Market stand. I approached your stand having bought $23 of artisanal cheeses from the stand directly across yours, and I was greeted with a classic Coldstare from a mindless bitch I'll call Erica, your "raw-ista." There were some spa-mouthwash-cup-sized samples of your juice set out on the table. I picked one up and tried it. It was disgusting, but I thought, "Hey, I'm interested in raw cane juice just like I'm interested in biodeisel and vegan cheese and having a prefabricated mini-planter full of struggling herbs and tomatoes in my yard so that my hipster friends can think I'm more hip than they are." So I tried another one; Erica disaffectedly told me it was "mint-sage." It tasted quite like spa mouthwash. As I was savoring this complex notion that graced my palate, a young man perhaps five years younger than myself walked up to the stand. He clearly was in need of nutrients; his sheer white tank hung loosely from his emaciated and tattoed torso; his vintage hat fell down over his fleamarket-found Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses which seemed to be slipping right off of his tiny, starved little noggin. So I understood when Erica started totally showering him with juice samples and congeniality. As she "hung out" there practically kissing the many jewels on his rocked-out hipster-band fingers, I chose a 16-oz. bottle of the plain juice ($7.00) and ordered a "grass" smoothie ($7.50) from the nice older man at the stand to whom Erica barked her orders. "Try this," Erica said to the local-rock god, "it's blueberry!" She produced a larger dixie cup from behind some promotional material on the stand. It piqued my interest, so I asked her if I could try that too. "Well, actually, these sample are for customers like him." She gestured to the 3 16-oz bottles he had chosen. At this point, I said nothing, returning Erica's coldstare until she felt too uncomfortable to deal with me, passing me off to the nice old man. I was stupefied by the fact that I had been denied a 2-sip sample of blueberry cane juice because I only bought $14.50 worth of juice that would all fit into the largest glass I have at my house. And to really top it off, apparently that guy was a priority customer because he spent $21.00??!!?? I was pissed. But I calmly looked down at my nonstylized, untorn Gap jeans, my boring 4-year-old white Nike running shoes, and my plain, unfitted green henley shirt. I was clearly not invited to Erica's party. I looked up at her as she rang up my order, and I stared through my Loehmann's-bought Cole-Haan tortoise-shell sunglasses, through her Forever 21-shoplifted oversized "zany" houndstooth sunglasses, and made contact with one of her vacant cow-eyes. She shuddered, handed me my change, and whipped around, hitting my face with the halter-tie on the back of her backless lycra dress from American Apparel.
Now, you may have some policy stating that for a "prime" sample, one must purchase over $20 of juice droplets. But how do you expect me to make that purchase if Erica won't even let me try it out because I don't look cool enough? You know, that's not even the point. Your juice freakin' sucks. It takes like Stevia; it's too sweet. That's why people who've harvested cane since ancient times never made pure raw cane juice! So here we have a product that sucks, sold by people who suck, more specifically people suck anorexic man-hipster's dicks. And to think, I'd probably think it tasted good if your Erica wasn't such a goddam wretched bitch, humiliating me in front of another customer after I bought $14.50 in the form of two glasses of juice.
It's too bad. I went to your website and saw the picture of you people in your overalls and Converse, and I thought, "I could be friends with these nice farmers." "I could dig this overpriced crap." I could even have told my friends to go to your stand and wait in the line while Erica takes her lazy old time pouring grass smoothies while purring at neo-gothic musicians and designer sneaker-freaks. But I'm sorry, guys... I have to tell you, I will never patronize your business ever again. We have too much between us now for me to ever turn around. Shall we meet in another life, perhaps I will drink Raw Cane Super Juice™. But shall Erica be there, I will be certain that perdition is where I've arrived.
Sincerely,
K. Moore
posted by Kir at 3:33 PM
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