I Just Realized Green Juice Is Cold Soup And I Am Going To End These Bastards

Like all of you, I have started every day of the last three years by refreshing my body with a nutritious green juice. Thanks to my industrial-strength juicer, I’ve tonified my colon, balanced my spleen, and juice-induced an orgasm all before I even finish my 200 daily sun salutations! “My green juice, my morning,” I like to say.

UNTIL THIS FUCKING MORNING.

You better hope your colon is in order, because I’m about to blow the shit straight out of you. This morning, I was using my immersion blender to grind up some minestrone for my dog, Blingo. He’s currently on a liquid diet to relieve his seasonal depression. I put his mason jar on the counter to go pick a little fresh sorrel from my wall garden as a garnish, and of course, I grabbed my green juice to take with me. I took a sip as I harvested the bouquet garni, and it tasted great, as usual.

And then … I realized … it was Blingo’s mason jar. But it tasted just the same.

IT’S JUST SOUP. GREEN JUICE IS JUST SOUP. IT IS COLD SOUP. WE ARE DRINKING SOUP.

I ran to check the label on the minestrone, sure there had been some sort of mix-up at the artisan dog soup store. The ingredients were right there: kale, broccoli, tomatoes, lemon juice. Throw in a green apple and you’ll have my Wednesday Waker-Upper! Panicking, I grabbed a can from my pantry and slurped it down. Campbell’s Chicken and Stars. Lord knows why that was even in my house, but it sure was identical to my $16 Bone Broth Brunch Shake.

Apparently, for the last decade, companies have just been smushing up vegetable soup and selling it us to them as health drinks. Because they’re in bottles instead of cans, we just accept that this is a real thing and not a heinous mockery. That high-end, pristine, artisan juice joint you like to jog to? That is a souplantation in disguise.

Well, I, for one, am not going to take this anymore. I didn’t get my bachelor’s degree in marketing from Northwestern for nothing—in fact, I got it to get a husband. But that’s not important right now. What I can do is beat these bastards at their own game.

I am going to use my clout as a social media influencer to get a meeting with these “juice” men. I am going to build a presentation. It will include samples of my new, revolutionary cleansing juice. It’s going to be based on tomatoes, I’ll tell them, as I hand out recyclable cups. Of course, because they subsist on juice, they will drink it. And I will stand there and watch.

Because it’s not going to be juice. It is going to be the blood of their pets which I will have ground up using the $700 juicer I skipped dentist appointments to afford. There are going to be Dalmatian puppies, shaggy elephants, and this exact quokka in there.

Extreme? You might think so, if you haven’t spent years imbibing ice-cold split pea with ham, ground to an indistinguishable mush that tastes the way KY Jelly feels. I haven’t eaten real food in three years. Three years.

I will get them.

And then I will get cake.

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