Our nation is divided right now. A chaos of choice looms among the people and tempers are rising. Name-calling and screaming… Of all places, I walk into a Circle K, and what used to be a whisper is now yelling for a decision to be made. Everyone has made the choice or must choose now. I think by now you know what I’m talking about.
Strawberry Milk. You either hate it, or you love it. But even if you love it, there will be a moment in your life where it is the most terrible drink in the world. Just the thought of it will make you gag.
I hung out with a couple friends last night, and we went on a hunt for delicious drinks. After six or seven gas stations and supermarkets, we came up empty handed on the search for chilled cream soda. Nick and Jeremy sold out to C2, and I thought I would just go without. At the last minute, we stopped at Circle K to see if they had any cream soda. They didn’t, and I just had to buy something.
Strawberry milk creeps up on you in gas stations, as you peruse the refrigerated stockade of high-sugar refreshments. You never go to a gas station thinking, “Man, I really need some Strawberry Milk to wash down my 13 gallons of gasoline.” But there it is, posed like a vixen in a glossy magazine, right next to Double Double Chocomania with the cow surfing in on a wave of it’s own excreted chocolate liquid, not at all disturbed that he’s flooding the nation with brown milk. But like a deer in headlights, you can’t look away from the pink-pressed label glistening with condensation. The image on the label shows a splash of rose-colored, high-calcium milk pouring out of the lid ready to sedate your appetite and thirst in 32 ounces or less. 100% of your Vitamin D, Calcium and saturated fat needs in one container.
But you will never consume 32 ounces in less than five sittings. You open the bottle, smell the intoxicating milk/strawberry hybrid, and with all intentions for a conservative sip, you are overwhelmed at its utterly delicious flavor. And so what started off as a drink is now a full on make-out session, mouth wide-open, slurping noises, drool, etc. You can’t get enough. And just when you pull out to breathe, you see that you managed to chug half of the container in the first gulp. Confounded by your gluttony, you abashedly look over your shoulder to see if someone caught you in your weakness. And when no one is to be found, you start sipping again. Slowly this time. And then, it happens:
“Ughhhh.” [pause] “‘Urp! Ummm. Phffffff.” [pause] “UghhhhhhhHHHH…”
You drank too much, you fat pig. If you’re anything like I was last night, you begin to regret a lot of things. Voting for Nader in 2000, third base with that waitress from Denny’s, but mostly, the strawberry milk. You also regret that you are driving, and you have nothing to vomit into. I think strawberry milk is like alcohol, you should never combine it with driving. I quickly gauged the percentage chance that I would spontaneously vomit onto my console. I gave mine a healthy 63% chance, increased significantly by Ass Jeremy, who thought it would be funny to hit me in the stomach after I chugged 1/3 of the milk. Haha, stupid ASS Jeremy, sooooooooo funny! HAHA!!!
So last night, I was speeding home, comforting my intestinal region, coaxing it to hold the Alamo for a few more miles. But still, I did what anyone else does when they feel like they are going to vomit in the car. I pulled into the lane closest to the shoulder and mentally noted Plan A and B. “OK, so I will just slow down, check my points for oncoming cars, and then hang my head out the door.” If, in the case that I couldn’t slow my car down and hang my head out the door, Plan B. I made a mental inventory of everything in my car that I could throw up in. It went in this order: “shirt, my lap, floor mat, collectible Texas Hold ‘Em Poker Set tin.”
I didn’t want to throw up in my Texas Hold ‘Em set, because I like to play poker with non-wretched on chips-
“I’m all in!”
“Dude, is that corn and a Cheerio?”
My shirt was the best option as it was super absorbent. And don’t act like you are grossed out, because I know that you have thought about what you would throw up in while you are driving. I am not alone.
Regardless, I made it home safely. I walked doubled-over, like a nut-punched hump, and took the remaining strawberry milk and put it in the fridge. I knew the following morning, I would want more. But that evening, all I could think about was that the last thing in the world I wanted was more strawberry milk. It’s strange though. I looked at the cow on the label, and he didn’t look happy anymore. He looked like he was mocking me. Punishing me for supporting a company that straps cows into harnesses then hooks up nipple-suckers to extract the cow’s milk inventory. Please, vote Nader in 2004 and wear PETA t-shirts.