Saturday, August 18, 2007

Look out, America. There’s a new vile infection in this country that’s gained a stronghold in LA, but it’ll hit your town, too. It attacks the mind and makes one believe that its dreadful, disgusting nature is actually palatable.

I’m talking about Pinkberry, of course.

So many people I know can’t get enough of that frozen yogurt. It seems to be a bigger food craze than In ‘N’ Out Burgers and Krispy Kreme Donuts combined. And yet, this stuff’s supposedly fat-free. So is that why everyone’s clamoring for it? I’ve heard they have some secret ingredient that makes it delicious and nutritious and its consumers so vicious.

I figured I’d try it. Well, Pinkberries are popping up all over, yet parking is impossible, and the line of people patiently waiting is peculiarly inversely proportional to the petite size of the place. Cramped in queue, you can stare at the display of overpriced cutesy plastic spinning salt-and-pepper shakers and other impractical kitchen utensils. Pinkberry should peddle pet rocks, too.

Finally at the front of the line, your choices are green tea or plain. That’s it. Now it’s clear why people pile on fruit, candy, Fruity Pebbles, etc. But all the add-ons can’t be the reason everyone’s here. The yogurt itself has got to be good, right? Gimme a sample of the plain.

Holy shit, that stuff was nasty. N-A-S-T-Y with a capital nyecch. Are people crazy? Is it possible the whole world came down with taste-bud dementia?

Or maybe it’s me. What do I know. I hate beer, remember?

Still, everyone -- including my girlfriend -- told me that at first, they thought Pinkberry was just okay. But they found themselves craving it more and more. Hmm, isn’t that what happens with smoking cigarettes or freebasing heroin or playing Tetris?

Could that secret ingredient be some kind of addictive substance? Surely the FDA wouldn’t allow such a thing. Neither would Adelphia.

But my girlfriend keeps begging me to take her back there. I’ll offer her other things to do for the evening -- see a movie? Go out for a fancy dinner? Fly to Paris?

“Pinkberry,” she’ll say. “Pinkberry. Pinkberry! Pinkberry!

Okay, okay. So I gotta drive around, look for parking and then squeeze into that claustrophobic cluster of pod people waiting for their foul flavorless fix. Adelphia is always so appreciative and gives me a big kiss, but I don’t feel right about it all.

I think I’m an enabler.

Next: Weight Watchers


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