Take highly sweetened Juice. Please! All bottled up. Complaining about shelf life most of the day, rattling about annoying Milk and Carbonated Water. It can really get noisy. I swear I’m going to take away her top shelf privileges and stuff her in the door with the rarely used items that nap most of the time. They’re a quiet bunch, like Tabasco Sauce until you let him out, and then he’s too hot too handle. Otherwise, he’s not too much trouble at all unlike that cantankerous, headstrong, whiny, highly sweetened Juice.
Frankly, it’s that fellow Fructose’s fault. He’s a terrible influence. He’s got her all drugged up on chemicals, you know, the ones with those fancy unpronounceable names. Fructose belongs in Juvenile Detention Hall with Fatty Acid, a junk food thug, and Sunny Delight, who does a great imitation cheese.
Oh, no! Juice is at it again. She’s making another ruckus. I hope she doesn’t upset Milk, who soured on us last week because of her antics.
“Glunk. Glunk. Let me out,” she shouts. “I’ve want to go with the flow, to be free to fly away and touch the sky, to spin like a kite in a wicked wind, a raw rush of energy unleashed, in my very own felonious sugar coated dream.” She shakes the bottle to further make her point, sloshing from side-to-side.
“Keep it quiet in there.” I have to put my foot down now and then. I can’t let Juice get out of control. Fructose does that, riles her up. At least she sleeps soundly at night. After the sugar rush is through, she crashes late in the afternoon.
Next time I have to be careful, when shopping, and read the small print on the label. I can’t concentrate with a wound up bottle of Juice nagging me all day. Natural juices are much better behaved.