I feel obliged to leave an update, as I do so often!
Simply put, the juice has been calling me. Strongly. Vehement shouting, one might say. No matter how many times you mentally scream 'SILENCE IN THE PEANUT GALLERY', the siren's call of the juice remains.
So I had no choice. I had to go on a quest. A pilgrimage, if you will. But you probably won't. So, a quest. A quest of epic proportions to find and ingest the most unfathomably delicious OJ this side of existence. Your pick was pretty good, Quasi-Slug, but disqualification, I'm sorry, I mean, dude, you have the capacity for inter-dimensional time travel. Your juice may be good, but you're a cheater, and mine's better anyway. Dick.
I so happened upon a small pocket of humanity that I consider to be perfection embodied; the orange juice monks of Altona Beach. Invisible to all but those who seek them. And I certainly was. Like the juice itself, the monk's shamanistic powers vibed-out to me, and man, it was pretty sw33t.
They spoke only in 1337. Which was quite difficult at first, but with some background knowledge, I was proficient in no time.
So, I left my post with the junkies. I bid tearful goodbye to Willem, and forgave him for the scotch fingers incident, now known as Biscuitgate by the indigenous population in that locale.
This was the beginning of my spiritual orange juice awakening, however this is not the end of my woeful story of sordid consumerism and flavourless citrus based temptations. Oh no, it was all to catch up with me.
