Santa Cruz Organic Ginger Ale Soda Review

[lovethesuit]

I wrote this review for a Ginger Ale I had during my lunch break. Please let me know what you think.

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[FONT="Book Antiqua"][SIZE="3"]To whom it may concern,

For the some of you out there who come from old-fashioned parents or hippie orphanages, you may be aware of a long-standing trend known as herbal remedy. You may have grown up with the occasional fever or sniffle, to which the inevitable response was a mixed herbal tea with several ingredients, one of which sounds vaguely medicinal in another language. Often this remedy had no appreciable effect besides placebo, but you pretended it did because your mother or father or Sister Sunflower Moonchild swear by it. If you’re lucky, you’re one of the kids whose parents believed in lemon or ginger as opposed to cod liver and eye of newt. But, inevitably, you’d get better in a day or two and that would be all the justification any holistic nutjob needed to claim the power of Gaia had personally healed you.

Now you’re grown up and you know about germs, sadness, and other true causes of disease. You know that lemon and ginger don’t hold a candle to medicinalized, lemon-flavoured cough drops. Still, every now and again you get a sore throat or stomach. There’s a nagging idea in the back of your head that forces you to shill out your hard earned coinage for a Schweppes Ginger Ale when you weren’t even thirsty. Studying the friendly green aluminum, you find no advertisement of its remarkable benefits to health and wellness. Even so, once your can is empty, your throat is wet, and your gas is expelled in one of many exciting ways, you feel a little better.
Why does Ginger Ale always seem to cure what ails you? It’s a mystery that prevails to this day, and I’ll admit I still get caught by it from time to time. Moreover, I consider myself a willing participant in the ongoing farce that is herbal remedy. That’s why today, as I was getting over the last struggling remnants of scratch in my throat, I decided to forage in the wilds of the campus for an elusive Schweppes. Imagine my surprise, then, when I walked up to the till with a Santa Cruz Organic Ginger Ale Soda clutched in one meaty hand and raw curiousity in the other.

Besides the fact that I couldn’t say the whole name of the bevery without sounding like a lifelong smoker, something felt off about my purchase. For the first, there was a strange red flowery plant of some sort on the front of the can. If you’ve ever had a raspberry Schweppes, you’ll understand why this was off-putting to me: raspberry Schweppes was created by God to test our spirit. Those who drink it see visions of Satan promising them life eternal in a world where raspberry Schweppes has never been created. Many are the unfortunate souls lost to Limbo, caught between Heaven and Hell as they unravel their sins. The greatest tangle of all: “Why did I finish the can?”

The second problem is right there in the name. “Organic.” Are you a skeptic? You’re on the internet so there’s a 50% chance you are. You may be aware that “Organic” is a catch-all term for “Bad and proud of it,” or “Effort what?” Saying something is “Organic” nowadays is the “Authentic Native-American” marketing prefix of yesteryear. It’s practically meaningless and vaguely insulting, even if it is, against all odds, true. Unless you eat glass shard sandwiches with iron shavings and plastic buns, almost everything you eat is Organic. Some things are unhealthy for you whether they have added chemicals or not. For example, if you eat free-range, 100% Haitian baby, you’re still a fucking cannibal and your timing is just awful; those people have been through so much. Why would you do that?

What else? Rule of three, okay, this is going to be a stretch. I guess I’ll check the website. Oh, this is good!  According to the nutritional information, this Organic soda has 35 grams of sugar. Understanding that a teaspoon of granulated sugar is roughly equivalent to 4 grams, this means there’s almost 12 teaspoons of sugar in the 355mL can. Saints preserve us, but only through non-chemical, wholly â€"organic means.

So, if there’s all those crudely-constructed reasons NOT to buy it, why did I? As I mentioned before, I had my curiousity fist at the time, and the Schweppes was not directly next to the door as I walked in. I would have had to walk several feet to the left to reach it. Keeping in mind I had to actually walk past that area to get to the till, shall we meet in the middle and just say I was looking for an excuse to be disappointed? I’ll take that, since, as you may expect, I was not disappointed. Or rather, I was disappointed. I mean, I was disappointed by the drink, but not in my expectation that the drink would be disappointing. What a hilarious misunderstanding. I’m glad we got over this; I love you man.

Santa Cruz Organic is the type of organization that feels so corrupt to me after this one experience that I call them an organization instead of a company. Not corrupt in their business practices, and not corrupt in that the nature of their bevery is undrinkable by mouths of man and beast alike. No, it feels corrupt because, at some point during the creation of this bevery, somewhere in the early days during conception, somebody had to leave work early. Maybe their kid was caught sexually-abusing someone in daycare, or they had to go see their parole officer because they were on parole for sexual abuse of a minor. Whatever the reason, they left early and it began a trend. Other people in the room got the idea in their heads to leave early. Pretty soon everybody was making excuses not involving molestation. From that point on, every meeting ended early and things started getting cut from the agenda; important things, vital things. Things like taste testing.

Imagine falling into a black hole. It’s okay, because I’ll run you through it; I saw a video on the internet on just this very subject today. At some point, the effect of gravity on your feet exceeds that of the effect on your head, and you begin to stretch. You stretch so long and so thin that you wind up being longer than your molecular structure will allow, and you break into pieces. Now imagine your tongue falling into a black hole. Oh, wait, you don’t have to imagine. Just pour some Santa Cruz Organic Ginger Hell onto it. This is science, guys, and you don’t mess with science.

This ginger ale tastes like gasoline and piss. This is probably because it was grown in a field where the wealthy white land owners chased their migrant ginger farmers around in humvees with their cocks out. It tastes like regret on a lazy summer day, just after the lazy summer night when you fucked a dog you don’t know. It’s flatter than roadkill, and Santa Cruz should be grateful that’s the only comparison I make between their bevery and dead animals. Should I be at all surprised that somebody screwed up Ginger Ale by putting the word Organic in front of it? No, I shouldn’t be surprised by its badness, but I was surprised by its scope, which interestingly is exactly what I’ll need to get the taste out of my mouth.

Can you taste the sugar? Kind of. I say kind of because under normal circumstances, 12 teaspoons of sugar in a can roughly the size of your fist doesn’t hide very well from your taste buds. However, Santa Cruz Organic found a way. That seems to be a theme with this bevery: they found a way to fuck up Ginger Ale; they found a way to get it in stores without anyone tasting it through the entire process; now, they found a way to hide the effect of 35 grams of sugar in a single can of “Organic” soda. You may ask yourself: “How did they do it?” It’s quite simple.

Remember when I said that raspberry Ginger Ale sends you visions of Satan to test the worthiness of your soul? The test of Santa Cruz Organic Ginger Ale Soda is whether you buy the can at all. The way I discovered this was by turning my head away from the computer and looking around me. You can’t see it from where you are, but what I see is an infinite cataclysm of hellfire and torment so total that not even the light of hope can escape. The searing heat boils the faces of the damned as their skin bubbles and eyes pop like so much Mentos in the diet coke of their sockets.

From here the logic all falls into place. How do you cure a disease? With a remedy. Ginger is widely considered an herbal remedy. What’s another word for remedy? Solution. Will you ever drink another can of this after the first? No. Therefore, this is the Final Solution. Who else had a final solution? That’s right, Hitler. Ah, we’re getting closer.

Who created raspberry Ginger Ale? God. Why did he create it? To test the souls of man. Where do those who fail the test get sent? Purgatory. What is worse than purgatory? Hell. If I’m currently in Hell, that means that Santa Cruz Organic Ginger Ale Soda is worse than Schweppes raspberry Ginger Ale. But wait, how does Santa Cruz translate? It means Crusher of Saints.

Ohhhhhh.

Satan. Hitler. Organic Ginger Ale.

Hitler burned the Jews to send their souls to Satan. They hide the sugar with the ash of burned jewish souls from the Holocaust.

After recycling the can, I sat down to write this review. Maybe it’s the sugar. Maybe it’s the first of many tortures that await me in Beelzebub’s grim realm. Whatever the reason, I hope that you find this review informative, enlightening, and helpful in choosing your next delicious bevery, or cure for a sore throat. If you have any questions or comments, write them down on authentic papyrus with a mixture of two parts ink to three parts Your Own Blood. Wait for it to dry, then take it into your bathroom at midnight. Turn off all the lights so that there is total darkness in the room. Then, strike a single match. If you can’t get the match to light, open the bathroom door as fast as you can and run outside of your home. Don’t, under any circumstances, turn on the light. Sleep on the sidewalk. In the morning, if you are still alive, you’ll know you’ve escaped.

If you successfully strike the match, then light the papyrus. Hold it on your open palms held up to the ceiling and wait for it to burn completely. Don’t flinch or pull your hands away, or they’ll be able to see you. Once the papyrus is gone, wait for sixty-six minutes and six seconds exactly. Then, rub the ash into your burned palms and recite the foreword by Judas in the latest edition of the Necronomicon. If all is successful, you’ll see a confirmation window pop-up in your bathroom mirror. Click OK, then go to sleep. You’ll have nightmares for the rest of your life, but I’ll get your comments and reply as soon as possible![/SIZE][/FONT]

[Porkolt]

That drink must really suck balls.

[IxTheSpeedy]

You crack me up man.

[Semli]

[Dr Dragon]

to long

[UnholyWon]

After reading what I thought to be a riveting review I awoke in the year 2095. I was startled and frightened, but then I learned our future had advanced in techinology beyond our wildest dreams, barring the set back of 2010 iPad, deemed the 'Epic Fail.' Our future did recover.

Sadly, my person just being in the future created unexpected results some of which I will look back upon with fondness while a great many others I will never talk about, ever.

My theory, I travelled forward in time as the exact moment I completed this review. I hope to travel back in time to the before completing this review and bash in my brains with a monkey wrench. I know there will be draw backs. I will no longer have fine motor skills, my speech will consist of slobbering gibberish, and I will believe shitting my pants is hilarious. All of which are worth it, if I truly wish to avoid the damage I did in the future.

[UnholyWon]

I actually reread the review and it gave me a giggle. I also shit my pants and thought that was hilarious too.

Good stuff LTS, just bustin your balls.

[Oskar Maxon]

I want a can of that.

[Kotenku]

It sounds like a blast for birthday parties.

[Drakill Tannan]

I want a can of that.

[Egon the Monkey]

Still sounds better than Miller.