No More POG Juice
The light has gone out of my life. There is no more Passion fruit, Orange, and Guava juice at the Dining Center. I am left bereft of its taste. While before my days eating food had been filled with whimsy, joy, and ecstatic bliss, now I simply chew in misery. I can no longer chortle as I turn to the nearest stranger, raise my glass in jubilation, and declare, “POG”, or perhaps “POGCHAMP”, or even “Poggers m’lady” if I happen to detect a woman. Now I sip tasteless water, tears burning my eyes. My hands can’t stay still, the glass shaking like Baldwin’s cup of trembling.
Is this hell? No, it cannot be. In hell, one is consoled by the knowledge that one is there for a reason. One is consoled by the fact that they had a chance. They had the chance to rebel against the cruel God who would allow us to suffer without POG juice. On this wretched plane, we must fritter our meager lives away without the blessed euphoria of that sweet sweet juice.
O blessed Hawaii, what did we ever do to earn your bountiful grace? What miracle of genius led to the creation of POG juice? Verily, when providence shall number the achievements of humanity, POG juice shall stand alone. To hell with Bach and Mozart, we should send only that nectar of the gods on the Voyager spacecraft. What has the rest of the world given us that compares to Hawaii’s brilliance? And yet I would gladly sacrifice a million Hawaii’s for but a drop of that orgasmic liquid.
I’ve been told there are other things in life. “Drink something else”, “Find love”, “Touch grass”, they tell me. But what are these things? Mere imitations of the joy POG juice brings me. What use is love to a man dying of thirst? For without POG juice, I will surely perish. What shall I drink that is not just a mockery of holy POG? For any liquid but my sweet mistress, I will only spit out in contempt. What will grass do to save me in my hour of need? I have spent hours touching grass, smashing my fists on the turf in vain. Perhaps if I take out my righteous anger upon the earth, some divine figure will be forced to intervene. Could Mother Nature quench my unquenchable thirst? Could God cease my anguish? I know not. All I know is that once I have supped from the teat of POG Itself, there is nothing more for me. I will either drown in its goodness or wither to dust without it. If you are reading this, I am most likely dead. If my beloved POG ever returns, drink it in memory of me.
They say, “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion” Indeed, I wept when I remembered POG juice.
