Facts! Pesky little motherfuckers, but here they are in the form of empirical evidence. Coca Cola, busted, baby! Burned! Whatever the residue is — sugar, syrup, a sweet hybrid derivative of glucose — its sludge remains.
Read ’em and weep, boil ’em and skip. Or not. Your mouth, your veins, your clogged up, charred remains.
Pesky facts, getting in the way of fantasy lived out. A world without Coca Cola? Frustrating, if not depressing. It’s part of our culture as gasoline is to a combustion engine.
Personally I can’t say no to a Jack and Coke. Refreshing drink in a highball, overflowing with robust chunks of ice, hot day, dry mouth . . . bliss! Jack and Coke is carbonated sunburst from sweet groggy heaven.
But the sludge remains.
Maybe just a few Coca Cola cocktails per year then, no more. A few can’t hurt, right? It’s the quantity that matters, the way the tars add up. A few cocktails per year, tops, can’t be that bad. Just for the heck of it. Proper Coke shit, no Zero. Only the real nasty stuff, for the taste and kick, the buzz, the fizzy nostalgia, the sweet analgesia. For the stories and memories from high school, the dizzy reminiscing and all that it entails, and the college era after that, the endless parties and the buzz on which they bubbled and surfed.
Yep, just a few per year, max, because the facts don’t lie. Plain as day, as thick as acid residue at the bottom of the pan, they add up after a while, especially if you pretend they’re not there, guzzling down the alternative interpretations to satisfy your frantic, strung-up mind.
Dangerous business, not minding the evidence.
From the bays of a scorching Pearl Coast,
Fish a ton of oysters, beware of the high noon glare.
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Bonus: The War On Drugs Edition, containing a slightly different spin on the subject matter:
Facts! Pesky little motherfuckers, but here they are in the form of empirical evidence. Coca Cola, busted! Burned! Whatever the residue is — sugar, syrup, a sweet hybrid derivative of glucose — its sludge remains.
Read ’em and weep, boil ’em and skip. Or not. Your mouth, your veins, your clogged up and charred remains.
Pesky facts, getting in the way of fantasy lived out. A world without Coca Cola? Nope! Not gonna happen.
My fix is simple. Jack and Coke. Highball glass, robust chunks of ice to the top, hot summer day, mouth dry, fizzing cocktail … bliss! Jack and Coke is carbonated sunburst from sweet groggy heaven.
But the sludge remains.
So no more than a few Coca Cola cocktails a year. They can’t hurt, right? It’s the quantity that matters, the way the tars add up. A couple or six cocktails per year, tops, should be fine. Just for the heck of it. For the taste and buzz, and the fizzy nostalgia, the analgesia, the stories from high school and their dizzy reminiscing, the college era after that, the endless parties and the buzz on which they bubbled and surfed.
Those were the days, and yet something was afoul, all sludge, tar, corrosive residue neutralizing the glow. Things could have been much tastier, smarter. Less is more, at least in the case of sugar and highs. The bitterer the better. Ask anyone born before the sixties.
If only Coca Cola had stuck to its original recipes: wine and fizz and cocaine. At least you got a proper high out of it, boom, no need to rush to the liquor store. A tonic to set the world straight.
Today’s sweet and sour recipe, on the other hand, what can one say? So brittle, thick on the tongue, thin on the mind, clingy, saran-wrap. It lacks backbone, something to send you spinning, fast.
Not a pipe dream. The manufacturers may yet add a little long-overdue zing to the fizz, if and when the consumers demand in, which they will, soon.
Until then, here’s to the good old days, to the cheers and highs our forebears enjoyed, and which we may yet encounter, one day, should we, as a culture, decide to drop the sugar addiction for pleasures of a different nature; tonics for body and soul that we’ll recategorize and relabel. We, rebels of a chemical persuasion, pushing the envelope, refreshing the menu, reintroducing a few interesting ingredients to the list, the kind that yesterday’s witch hunts are finding harder to demonize.
Soon. Coming to a store near you. Tomorrow’s cocktails and refreshments, the future way to kick back and unwind.
We’re calling it. Here, at Pearl Coast, we can feel the War on Drugs becoming a thing of the past, a blemish as embarrassing as the witch hunts of yesteryear. The plague of sugar will be over. You can smell the odor of change in the wind. The Witchfinder Generals will stage a comeback, looking to preserve the industries of candied poison, but their initiative will be disingenuous, pathetic, and ill-fated.
We’re calling it.
From the bays of a breezy Pearl Coast,
Fish a ton of oysters, beware of the undertow.