Robert Robus on juice

Juice is generally a salubrious and thrilling beverage, though at times it stains one's trousers in places where, frankly, one would rather not be stained. Yet I hold juice in high regard: it is a beverage worthy of worship; it is the most lofty jewel in the crown of our civilization. Whether it be composed of grape, mango, or kumquat substances, or of any other substance, juice is certainly the most resplendent, tasty beverage that has ever been ingested by "humans." And I, Robert Robus, am a "human."

Not that people have anything to do with how good juice is, of course. My pet monkey Bates, for example, quite invariably downs any fruity beverage which happens to be plunked down in front of him. (He also, incidentally, quotidianly snarfs dentifrice and leather--but that's another matter.) And, of course, if a glass of juice has good flavour in the forest and there's no one around to taste it, that does not make it any less glorious.

Take this column, for instance: I, Robert Robus, have absolutely no contingent of fans--with the possible exception of those people who mobbed me yesterday in Central Park and demanded that I dispense with autographs lest they excoriate me with words, that is! Were I to believe that the popularity of a column were always commensurate with its inherent quality, I would be forced to believe that the Musings of I, Robert Robus, were of a worth not dissimilar to chaff. Yet I know that is not the case; the Musings of Robert Robus is, in point of fact, spectacular. The mere fact that almost no one has ever read my column does not impinge one iota on its inherent spectacularity. I am, in fact, grandiose.

And those, dear readers, are my thoughts on juice. Please return another day for more plethorious musings, and many further ridiculous narratives, from the gilded desk of I, Robert Robus.