I know I'm in the minority, but I'm just gonna come right out and say it: Pinkberry tastes like ass! I don't get the long lines out the door, nor do I understand how people can stomach putting that vile, overpriced slop in their mouths. Maybe Pinkberry puts something in its yogurt that appeals only to those with more estrogen in their systems than testosterone since the lines out the doors are always comprised mostly of women. But to me and my balls, Pinkberry tastes like the milk they used was sour coming out of the cow, and throwing fruit on it doesn't disguise the grimace inducing hideousness of its flavor.
So when last night's date called a half hour before we were supposed to get together and suggested we meet at Pinkberry instead of at Starbucks, as previously planned, I hesitated.
"You don't like Pinkberry?" she asked.
"Not really, but that's cool. It's about the company anyway," I said.
"Hmmm. I really want Pinkberry."
"Don't worry about it. I'll sit with you while you eat."
"I don't know. It'll be weird if only I'm eating. I guess I'll have to push it off for another time."
"Yeah, well. Pinkberry isn't going anywhere."
"No. I mean our date. I really, really want Pinkberry. I was away for most of the weekend and there were no Pinkberries near me. I've been thinking about it since Friday."
I could have suggested that she get the yogurt before we met, but if she was gonna cancel a date because she was fiending for some Pinkberry, then far be it from me to get in between a girl and her curdled yogurt addiction.
"Well, enjoy it," I said, without offering to reschedule.
"Uhh, ooookay. I will," she said, as if she was annoyed that I wasn't interested in coming in second to a nine dollar cup of turd.
The friend who tried to set us up already gave me hell for not going out with her and force feeding myself the yogurt. But I'm pretty sure Ms. Pinkberry isn't for me, and I can only hope that her ass got bigger with each spoonful.