You are twelve and it is afternoon snack time. You enter the house through the front door, drop your backpack on the kitchen counter, and beeline for the fridge. You fully expect to see another vomit-inducing six pack of Mott’s 100% apple juice but are absolutely beside yourself when you discover case of 100% radical Kool-Aid Bursts.
You split open the cardboard box with extreme prejudice and rip the head off of one of the plastic bottles. You are only slightly disappointed when you squeeze the bottle and it doesn’t magically deform into the shape of the word “BURST” as you’re drinking it.
While finishing up the third bottle, you reflect on how consuming these drinks is neither wacky nor wild as the ad you saw while watching Spider-Man on Saturday suggested, but you’re full of so much sugar you don’t even really care.
Your mother comes in to find four empty plastic bottles on the floor and a fifth, half-empty, in your hand. She is not disappointed; she is angry.
You imagine yourself as the matador kid on the commercial and your mother as the bull.
“Ole!” you shout at your mother as she charges toward you. Your mom is not a cartoon bull, however, and her fully-grown adult body is quite effective against your attempts to sway her attention with an invisible cape. It is even more effective against your butt.
You will not be getting Kool-Aid Bursts again.