You are the armpit of Provo. You are a magnet for the transients who arrive via the Greyhound station located directly behind you. You are Provo's only coffee house, thus securing your role as a vortex for Mormon sinners who forfeit eternal happiness for a cup 0' joe. You are a stinking corpse, a fruitless dominion, a mangy mutt.
And your service is horrible.
You sprawl your obese thighs around the corner of 200 West and 100 North, where you sit, festering, in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Your scent attracts drones from miles around, who invade your open cavities to immerse themselves in your putrid stench. These parasites have many different forms: Homeless Junkies, Hopesters (wanna-be hipsters), Toothless Toms, Gutter Punks, and the occasional tobacco-loving father who uses you as a place to bring the kiddies on visiting day. Yes, there's nothing like blowing smoke into the faces of your children to say, "I love you."
Oh, Juice, I don't know quite what to say. You have really outdone yourself as a gathering place for the dregs of Provo society.
At least you're a shoe-in for yearly "Provo's Best Coffee House" awards.