Damn Thee, Infernal Kool-Aid Man!

Gasp! There's swearing in that headline! For shame!

Why am I swearing in today's headline? Well, because I'm pretty sure the Reader Weekly newspaper in Duluth, Minn. is no longer syndicating this column. How can I tell? Well, they haven't sent me a paper or contacted me for quite a few weeks now, so I think it's a safe bet.

Bastards.

Or if I'm mistaken: non-bastards.

So on with the cursing and crude poopy references! Hooray!

Um, yeah. Okay, so there won't really be much cursing or poopy references in today's column. But there will be a rather lengthy discussion about those juice pack thingies that I don't remember the term for. Y'know, the ones where you jam the straw into the top of it, as if you were gouging your eye with a pencil? Yeah, those juiceboxes.

If anybody knows the proper term for these Capri-Sun things, please e-mail me and let me know. Otherwise, I'll continue to go crazy trying to think of it. You wouldn't want me to go crazy, would you reader?

Well, up yours then.

So how was I too busy to write a column yesterday, when today, on deadline day for The Newspaper– which employs me– I was able to write a full-blown investigation on Kool-Aid Jammer juice thingies? Well, I'm energized today, reader. This juice thingy has given me my fully recommended amount of Vitamin C (a phrase which I have decided to capitalize for some reason), and I'm full of energy! I'm ready to pounce! I'm overcome with violent rage from jabbing the straw into the juice pouch!

Oooh. "Juice pouch." That's what those juice thingies are called, aren't they? Somehow, it doesn't seem quite right, though. Perhaps it's because "juice pouch" makes it sound like I'm drinking cherry Kool-Aid from the mucus-filled birthing area of a kangaroo. I dunno.

Anyway, my co-workers are looking at me like I'm a complete tool today. Apparently, it's not "cool" to walk around drinking Kool-Aid Jammer pouches. Well, that's simply untrue. I would know, because I invented cool in 1947, with a jerry curl hairdo and a shy smile . . . and one hell of a set of tap shoes.

Gasp! Swearing! Now I won't be syndicated!

Okay, I just spilled Kool-Aid on my pants. Not cool. It's times like these when you just want to go crazy. You know, crazy. Like the guy who directed the movie "Mulholland Drive." I WATCHED THAT MOVIE TEN FREAKIN' TIMES AND I STILL DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT THE CRAP IS GOING ON IN IT.

Stupid David Lynch. If I ever see him on the street, I'm going to throw my shoe at him.

Okay, now I'm tired. I don't have any more Kool-Aid Jammer pouches, either. So I'm going to bed. You should go to bed too. Then we could both wake up refreshed. Wouldn't that be refreshing? What's that? You read this column in the morning?

Shit.

Oh, and by the way, if anyone from the Kool-Aid company is watching, you owe me $60 for the six times I mentioned you in this column. Pay up by Friday, or I'll slice the Kool-Aid Man with a glass cutter.