How I Broke Up With Shakeology

If you’re not familiar with Shakeology, all you need to know is it’s a bag-of-expensive-powder program brought to you by the same fine folks that brought you Insanity, Insanity: The Asylum, and the sure-to-be-forthcoming, Insanity: Fundamental Institution.


I’m not here to bash the product. The chocolatish nutri-dust tasted pretty much like any whey protein I’ve had before and it’s definitely healthier than the majority of my diet. Thing is, I really only purchased a monthly subscription of Shakeology to help a friend’s monthly sales, and while it was a fine product, I couldn’t really justify the expense given that I was doing nothing else in my life to get healthy at the time.

Aw, I put “at the time” as if I’m currently doing things to get healthy. Adorable. 

So I had to cancel the subscription. As expected, it was a bit of a hassle. I thought I could do it online. Nope. You gotta call. So I call. An automated service actually directs you to another website. Nope. Called back and waited for a customer service rep. A little voice said it’d be 3 minutes. 10 minute wait and the same 20 second loop of shitty acoustic guitar later, a chap named Oscar asks if he can help me. We go through the motions until he hits me with the inevitable: 

“So…if you don’t mind my asking…why will you be cancelling today?” 

I figured what the hell and went for this:

Me: Oscar, are you familiar with Dunkaroos?

Oscar: No, Michael, I’m sorry. I am not.


Me: That’s alright. Dunkaroos were a snack food very popular in the 90s. Hard to get now. Well, I’ve got pending orders for it all over eBay, Amazon,, and I don’t know what’s happening in the snack food market, but suddenly all these orders are getting fulfilled and I am just HEMORRHAGING money right now and so I can’t afford this service anymore.”

Oscar: …ah, I see. Financial difficulty. Well, we could set you up on a 3 month plan instead of monthly. Would that be something you’d be interested in?

Me: I don’t think so, man. Dunkaroos are kind of my passion, and I see myself just pouring all my finances into that for the foreseeable future.

Oscar: Ok…were you satisfied with the product?

Me: It was fine. It’s no Dunkaroos, of course.

Oscar: Right.

Because honestly, what else can you say after that but “really”? 

I kinda wanna sign up for more shit just to give strange answers as to why I’m canceling. A very selfish, egotistical part of me hopes Oscar told this story to his coworkers, family, and friends, or that he at least looked up “Dunkaroos.” Maybe he every bought some from Canada where they totally still exist in hopes of making an investment for the future. Maybe ten years from now, he’ll find those Dunkaroos and think, “oh yeah!” and try to look them up on Internet 2 (the Internet will be passé by then) and get sad when he can’t make any money off them. 

It’s really the dream of doing anything like this, isn’t it? The idea that you’ve somehow set some ripple into motion that will mildly, inanely affect a few people forever.


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