Oh, snap. [2]
Nevertheless. Hoping I wouldn't end up shitting myself, I opened the first can -- "Goji Berry Blue" -- and decided to take a chance.
I have no idea what a Goji berry is, but it surely must suck. I bet all the other berries hate it. I bet it's the berry that gets picked last in gym class at berry school. Because, upon opening the can, I was slapped in the face by an overwhelming aroma of olives. Olives. In a carbonated beverage. Seeing my apprehension, Thing One told me, "I told you."
I took another whiff. Under the olives there was some type of blue-raspberry kind of smell. The combination was bizarre.
The taste was just as bizarre. It was like drinking olive berry pop that had gone partly flat. "Oh, God, that's awful," I said. "It's as if a blueberry had sex with an olive. Who's going to help me drink this crap?"
Thing One looked right at me. "I cannot drink that." Thing Two tried it and decided that it tasted like prunes and berries soaked in the juice from a jar of olives. "Mom," she asked me after taking a drink, "why would someone do this?" Then she gagged a little bit.
"Yeah," Thing One decided. "It's not like He needs the money."
"Yes, He does," said Mr. Daphne, entering the room and looking at the cans. "He's out of three-word-title movie ideas." Deciding to get in on the fun, Mr. Daphne had some. His first reaction: he liked the can. Well, there you go. The can is cool.
I told you.
Then he drank some. To him, it tasted like apple juice.
"How the hell can you not taste the olives?" I asked him.
"I don't know. What's this? It's made with cane juice?" He was studying the awesome writing and Chinese gobbledygook on the sides of the can.
"Yeah, or so He says. If you drink enough of it, you can get the runs."
"Hmmph. Cane juice. Maybe he used the juice from Kendo canes instead of sugar cane."
Mr. Daphne was not too impressed, either. We tossed the last of the blue can down the drain, hoping it wouldn't ruin the bio-bacteria load in our septic tank, and opened the red can. "Cherry Charge." Wooeee.
Well, this was better. Instead of just olives and berries, we got olives, berries, and the smell of Luden's Cherry Cough Drops. Yeesh.
The taste was memorable.
No, it wasn't. I'm being horribly sarcastic. It was like cherries, olives, and ass all rolled up into one grand tastebud experience. In fact, I'm involuntarily making a face as I write this.
Thing Two actually liked it, though. She thought it was spicy and tasted like strawberries. I had to take it away from her to give it to Mr. Daphne to try it. "You're going to get the runs. Give that to Dad."
She handed it over. He had the same reaction I did: a grimace. "Grenadine. Flat pop."
Since Thing One hadn't tried this flavor before, his reaction to this new flavor was to suffer a reflexive gag. He handed the can back to me and went for a glass of water.
Waste not, want not: I ended up drinking over half of the red can before the taste got to me. My stomach started to feel funny, so I stopped and poured the rest into the drain, dreading what would happen to our septic system. And then I had a glass of water.
Water has never tasted so good.
About an hour later I had to poop.
And when I did, it was with urgency. One moment I was sitting in the living room, the next I found myself walking towards the bathroom before conscious thought had even arrived on the scene. My ass, deciding there was no time to lose, apparently said "Fuck you" to my brain and went directly to my feet, demanding action. Possibly-catastrophic diarrhea -- the wholesale dealer of the shit business -- decided to cut out the middleman. It decided that there was neither time nor reason to involve my brain and skipped the normal path of business like a greedy, overweight, coddled, upper-income, Izod-wearing, expensive scotch-guzzling, Hummer-driving, high-end call-girl-using, middle-aged white American male baby boomer at your nearest Wholesale Buyer Direct Warehouse picking out sixty thousand dollars worth of home improvement items for forty percent off the retail cost in the hopes that he, too, will be featured on a late night infomercial.
I scuttled over the bathroom's threshold and slammed the door, locking it and flicking on the fan in one swift motion. After tossing the toilet seat up, I successfully performed The Move with both a pair of Spongebob Squarepants boxer shorts and a demure white thong. The feeling of relief one experiences when nearly escaping the humiliation of crapping oneself washed over me as I let loose Sphincter One from Ground Zero in a comforting wave; and, most likely, I was smiling like a fucking idiot watching a bug zapper, slack-jawed with half-lidded eyes and partially-raised eyebrows.
It was a liquid torrent that smelled suspiciously like olives. Watered down, noxious, and explosive.
It was like shitting Steven Seagal himself.
As I cleaned up, it occurred to me that each can, while being over twelve ounces, only cost one dollar. Well, there you go. You get what you pay for.
