Posted in food, humor

Pulp Nonfiction

Every time the Red Cross has a blood drive, I think I should donate. One year I did because in exchange for my pint of blood, I’d receive one pint of gelato from my favorite gelateria. One pint equaled eight scoops. I chose hazelnut, chocolate, nutella, stracciatella, pistachio, praline, amaretto, and peach. I decided to skip blood orange.


Speaking of which, I once saw freshly squeezed blood orange juice on a menu. I wondered what that would taste like. I am a big fan of freshly squeezed orange juice. I love it because of the pulp.


I had been getting freshly squeezed orange juice in cafes, but was shocked to discover it wasn’t actually squeezed the moment I ordered it. One place called it “fresh squeezed,” when it came from a Tropicana carton. Another had it delivered from an industrial plant several hours away.


I decided to make my own freshly squeezed orange juice. I sliced oranges in half to put in the squeezer. I used one of my newly sharpened knives to do the cutting. The blade slipped, slicing my finger.


Blood spurted. It dripped in the sink. It dribbled on the counter. Thankfully, it didn’t get in my drink. That would have given new meaning to blood orange juice.


Yes, this is a true story.

Not pulp fiction.




I am a rather obscure 14th C. poet, whose work has been translated into over thirty dialects of gibberish. I now spend my days translating from the gibberish into English and back again, as need be.

8 thoughts on “Pulp Nonfiction

  1. One of my former favorite quenchers was SoBe water’s Blood Orange / Mango combination. I used to imagine it as having 3 ingredients instead of 2.


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