16 ounces to freedom.
Like almost every provocative purveyor of pleasure before them, Monster Energy now finds itself the target of a vast media campaign seeking to de-legitimize the beverage’s taste, image and safety. Don’t believe the hype.
So there’s a dead mouse in one person’s can of the sweet nectar that is Monster energy drink. Boo fucking hoo. Clearly, this mishap stains the entire enterprise’s reputation, which was already that of a hyper-caffeinated beverage supplier that sponsors dirt bike racing and demands that you “Unleash the Beast!”
In case you didn’t realize, Monster did unleash the beast when they put that mouse in the fucking can. When that 19 year-old kid opened it, he unleashed the beast again. Has there ever been more truth in advertising?
The guy vomited immediately upon seeing the floating tip of a mouse’s tail. BAD. ASS. Vomiting is entirely metal. In high school, my friends would skip class, go to the baseball practice field at the end of the access road where nobody ever came, chug a bunch of Ipecac and then compete in feats of strength. They’d punch each other in the stomach, do push ups, and frequently clutch the chain link backstop with two fingers down their throat, emptying the contents of their stomachs on the grass. They put the video online.
The first movie I ever saw in theaters was The Little Mermaid. My mother took me when I was a young child. During the commercials and previews, I was so excited that I ate a hot dog and ran up and down the aisles like I was the shit. The combination made me puke in the theater. We had to leave. Must I repeat? BAD. ASS.
On a road trip to Mexico, my girlfriend and I made a plan to drive from Atlanta to New Orleans straight on through the night. Since it was her turn to drive and mine to rest, I took to my sleeping bag in the back of the truck while she got two Monster Hitman drinks (the super-concentrated, even-worse-for-you concoctions) from a convenient store. She drank them both. I woke up at five in the morning at a rest stop somewhere in Alabama, my girlfriend crawling into the sleeping bag and shaking uncontrollably. She was unable to drive any further.
Monster fucking rules, is my point. Vomiting is cool. Full-body tremors are cool. But more than anything else, bitches, I drink it for the taste.
That’s right, the taste. I’m aging prematurely, and I don’t give a God damn. While some have suggested that forcing prisoners to drink Monster would constitute a war crime, all I can say is, “Thank you sir, may I have another?” I drink one of these bad boys almost every day, and not for the caffeine (which has strangely stopped having its desired effect, for some reason). Seriously, my first sip of a Monster is like the first time you drink water after waking up with the worst hangover in your life, dried out and crusty, gripping the running faucet on the bathroom sink while your mouth takes pull after pull.
And here’s the thing: I’m not an energy drink guy. I’m not into Red Bull, I think Rockstar is terrible, and I’d rather listen to the New Kids on the Block/Backstreet Boys circle jerk than drink an Amp. I’m a faithful monogamist; Monster is my one and only.
In closing, I’d just like to make two points. First, for the taste haters, give the lo-carb version of Monster a shot. It’s the blue can, and the only one I drink. There’s enough sugar in the original to make the Dead Sea taste sweet.
Second, both Popeye’s Chicken and KFC restaurants have had mouse-in-food-related incidents in the past decade. Both still serve delicious fried chicken, and if you can’t get down with it, walk your ivory tower ass back to Whole Foods. This man right here is busy eating a Double Down and unleashing the motherfucking BEAST.