Coconut Water
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Growing up, I had two options when it came to drinking water: from the tap or from the spigot. I don’t count the water fountain at school because my turn in line was usually behind the kid who drank like he was in contention for giving the best rim job of all time. Ironically, my hometown was known for its water tower with the high school mascot painted across it. It was the epitome of penis envy meets Southern cultural landmark. Bigger was better, and you best by-God be showing them school colors come Friday night.
With so many other beverage options, water played the part of the fat kid in gym class, always picked last. Yet, when I had finished off my daily allotment of canned sodas, I managed to grovel my way back like a wife-beater clad muchacho to a wet and willing glass of mami chula, assuring her that my cheating days were over. And in true junkie form, I always found myself back in the temptress arms of a Sunkist or RC Cola or whatever happened to be on sale that week down at the A&P.
Fast forward to today and I can rattle off the name of at least five multi-bajillion dollar companies in the bottled-water industry before you can break a nail twisting off that new and improved sports bottle cap. Yes, my 1984-self, you heard me correctly. In 2011, people can buy bottled water at the E-Z Mart. I’m not talking about gathering around the water cooler for daily chats about who the office orifice is now banging or how to cure that “friend-of-a-friend” who has a rash “down there.” I’m saying that you can purchase your very own environmentally disastrous polyethylene terephthalate (that’s a dickish way of saying plastic) bottle filled with the only shit on earth that not only can you bathe in, but also drink.
Here’s the best part: what usually goes for about a penny when self-served from the faucet can now cost up to four dollars depending on where it is purchased. That’s one hell of a gold mine considering it’s not the queen’s tears, nor The Donald’s sweat. Thanks to Sesame Street, I know it’s just plain agua. And now, some asshole-genius who was probably on a three-day Pine-Sol huffing bender decides to market it, and we’ve all taken the bait as if it were the latest-greatest flavor of Jim Jones Kool-Aid. Ah, the entitlement our minds play on our lard-ass society’s body. We feel like we’ve done ourselves a favor by skipping the diabetic coma brew at lunch, but come dinner time, the hypoglycemia will kick in and we’ll be demanding a free super sized re-fill at the Golden Corral.
I understand that water is a necessity and a healthy beverage choice, but paying more than what it’s worth just because it’s bottled makes me want to bust out a few resounding choruses of Hava Nagila. Given the heavy mark-up, I can only assume that this sweet nectar of bottled life must have advantages beyond the peasant tap version. After all, it’s 100% natural, straight from Mother Nature’s bosom, and clearly, anything involving a mother’s bosom is top shelf. Consider her less like your own mother, dear Oedipus, and more like your best friend’s stepmother, the one that you jerked off to while dad was mowing the grass and mom was away grocery shopping. At least back then, the reward was a few moments of pubertal pleasure. With bottled water, the thirst is quenched, but much like a Viagra-less Bob Dole, you’re often left frustrated with a bad case of whiskey dick. If I’m paying top dollar for it, full satiation is expected.
Honestly, unless the Pope has blessed and bottled it up for my holy consumption, what’s the point? And, more importantly, where’s the taste? At least Jesus had sense enough to turn this shit into wine. Seriously, who drinks water with pizza? Gag. Who goes to the movies and gets water with popcorn? Cheap-ass. How about that perfect romantic evening, complete with fireplace, candlelight, soprano sax riffs, and…water? Spooning your pillow tonight, buddy. The boys down in the lab have solved this riddle by not only bottling the water, but also flavoring it. Don’t get too excited though. The flavoring is not in the old-school Tang kinda way, but more in that hipster I-drive-a-Prius kinda way. With flavors like lemongrass mint vanilla and honeydew hibiscus, it can be very hard to tell whether it’s made for drinking or painting the living room.
Flavoring opens the door to other enhancements as well, including electrolytes, vitamins, and minerals, which ten million of us strong and growing Flintstone kids received every morning in a chewable pill. Now, it’s built into twelve flavorful ounces, some even dubbing it “smart water.” But, to an extent, there’s only so far faux-naturale can take you. Bolt-on titties are great for nuzzling a few dollar bills in between, but sometimes the real deal is the only thing that can get you off. That’s when it’s time to reach for a different kind of water, one that is more akin to juice. Translation: coconut water.
With a glass of it in front of me, I was having a difficult time deciphering between halfway full or halfway empty. I wondered how nature’s gem of scientific simplicity had been converted from two parts hydrogen/one part oxygen into two parts intrigue/one part gag reflex. “I’m your huckleberry” echoed through my head in that Val Kilmer Tombstone voice. Images from my youth that involved anything remotely related to a coconut—Gilligan’s Island, The Swiss Family Robinson, and even those Hawaiian Brady Bunch episodes— were racing through my head, except much more Marilyn Manson than Mickey Mouse. I swear I saw Greg sneaking into Jan’s bunk with a wink from Papa Brady that said “go easy on her, she’s still a virgin.”
The smell was as if Bonnaroo and Coachella had hooked up the night before at Burning Man. The consistency was a bit like a thin amniotic syrup, and the clouded, murky-white color hinted that it probably wasn’t legal in most states. Convinced that this powerful liquid was surely what Dorothy had thrown on the Wicked Witch, I’m guessing the recipe went something like this: take one very old library book, juice it, enjoy. And so, like a bukkake star, I swallowed compliantly. As my taste buds valiantly fought their way towards freedom, they were engulfed by the accentuated, musty taste of wood, dirt, and wet cardboard, as though I had literally licked the shell of a coconut.
The devil’s Mai Tai doesn’t go all-in only on flavor, though. While it’s technically not really water, the loss in integrity due to identity theft is overshadowed by the gain of becoming the hottest accessory to that yoga mat lying next to your Birkenstocks. More importantly, coconut water is a drunken night out’s kryptonite. Taunt it with your most raucous frat party, provoke it with a bottle or two of Boone’s Farm, and even beer-before-liquor it, but this luscious, coconut delight stands defiantly giving the finger to hangovers. That perk alone is enough to justify keeping a few bottles in the fridge, or at least hitting happy hour a bit more frequently.
With a deluged cornucopia of options, let’s take it back to basics every once in a while and simply turn on the tap. If you are getting the urge to feel super trendy, er, environmentally friendly, just carry one of those faggy aluminum bottles. You’ll fit right in, and with the money you’re saving on goin’ tap, you can independently finance your crap-ass band’s new record rather than spamming me for donations on Kickstarter. Meanwhile, I think I’ll call up my best friend’s stepmother. She’s now Code Cougar, and with coconut water on the breath, I’m certainly not getting pussy anytime soon.
With so many other beverage options, water played the part of the fat kid in gym class, always picked last. Yet, when I had finished off my daily allotment of canned sodas, I managed to grovel my way back like a wife-beater clad muchacho to a wet and willing glass of mami chula, assuring her that my cheating days were over. And in true junkie form, I always found myself back in the temptress arms of a Sunkist or RC Cola or whatever happened to be on sale that week down at the A&P.
Fast forward to today and I can rattle off the name of at least five multi-bajillion dollar companies in the bottled-water industry before you can break a nail twisting off that new and improved sports bottle cap. Yes, my 1984-self, you heard me correctly. In 2011, people can buy bottled water at the E-Z Mart. I’m not talking about gathering around the water cooler for daily chats about who the office orifice is now banging or how to cure that “friend-of-a-friend” who has a rash “down there.” I’m saying that you can purchase your very own environmentally disastrous polyethylene terephthalate (that’s a dickish way of saying plastic) bottle filled with the only shit on earth that not only can you bathe in, but also drink.
Here’s the best part: what usually goes for about a penny when self-served from the faucet can now cost up to four dollars depending on where it is purchased. That’s one hell of a gold mine considering it’s not the queen’s tears, nor The Donald’s sweat. Thanks to Sesame Street, I know it’s just plain agua. And now, some asshole-genius who was probably on a three-day Pine-Sol huffing bender decides to market it, and we’ve all taken the bait as if it were the latest-greatest flavor of Jim Jones Kool-Aid. Ah, the entitlement our minds play on our lard-ass society’s body. We feel like we’ve done ourselves a favor by skipping the diabetic coma brew at lunch, but come dinner time, the hypoglycemia will kick in and we’ll be demanding a free super sized re-fill at the Golden Corral.
I understand that water is a necessity and a healthy beverage choice, but paying more than what it’s worth just because it’s bottled makes me want to bust out a few resounding choruses of Hava Nagila. Given the heavy mark-up, I can only assume that this sweet nectar of bottled life must have advantages beyond the peasant tap version. After all, it’s 100% natural, straight from Mother Nature’s bosom, and clearly, anything involving a mother’s bosom is top shelf. Consider her less like your own mother, dear Oedipus, and more like your best friend’s stepmother, the one that you jerked off to while dad was mowing the grass and mom was away grocery shopping. At least back then, the reward was a few moments of pubertal pleasure. With bottled water, the thirst is quenched, but much like a Viagra-less Bob Dole, you’re often left frustrated with a bad case of whiskey dick. If I’m paying top dollar for it, full satiation is expected.
Honestly, unless the Pope has blessed and bottled it up for my holy consumption, what’s the point? And, more importantly, where’s the taste? At least Jesus had sense enough to turn this shit into wine. Seriously, who drinks water with pizza? Gag. Who goes to the movies and gets water with popcorn? Cheap-ass. How about that perfect romantic evening, complete with fireplace, candlelight, soprano sax riffs, and…water? Spooning your pillow tonight, buddy. The boys down in the lab have solved this riddle by not only bottling the water, but also flavoring it. Don’t get too excited though. The flavoring is not in the old-school Tang kinda way, but more in that hipster I-drive-a-Prius kinda way. With flavors like lemongrass mint vanilla and honeydew hibiscus, it can be very hard to tell whether it’s made for drinking or painting the living room.
Flavoring opens the door to other enhancements as well, including electrolytes, vitamins, and minerals, which ten million of us strong and growing Flintstone kids received every morning in a chewable pill. Now, it’s built into twelve flavorful ounces, some even dubbing it “smart water.” But, to an extent, there’s only so far faux-naturale can take you. Bolt-on titties are great for nuzzling a few dollar bills in between, but sometimes the real deal is the only thing that can get you off. That’s when it’s time to reach for a different kind of water, one that is more akin to juice. Translation: coconut water.
With a glass of it in front of me, I was having a difficult time deciphering between halfway full or halfway empty. I wondered how nature’s gem of scientific simplicity had been converted from two parts hydrogen/one part oxygen into two parts intrigue/one part gag reflex. “I’m your huckleberry” echoed through my head in that Val Kilmer Tombstone voice. Images from my youth that involved anything remotely related to a coconut—Gilligan’s Island, The Swiss Family Robinson, and even those Hawaiian Brady Bunch episodes— were racing through my head, except much more Marilyn Manson than Mickey Mouse. I swear I saw Greg sneaking into Jan’s bunk with a wink from Papa Brady that said “go easy on her, she’s still a virgin.”
The smell was as if Bonnaroo and Coachella had hooked up the night before at Burning Man. The consistency was a bit like a thin amniotic syrup, and the clouded, murky-white color hinted that it probably wasn’t legal in most states. Convinced that this powerful liquid was surely what Dorothy had thrown on the Wicked Witch, I’m guessing the recipe went something like this: take one very old library book, juice it, enjoy. And so, like a bukkake star, I swallowed compliantly. As my taste buds valiantly fought their way towards freedom, they were engulfed by the accentuated, musty taste of wood, dirt, and wet cardboard, as though I had literally licked the shell of a coconut.
The devil’s Mai Tai doesn’t go all-in only on flavor, though. While it’s technically not really water, the loss in integrity due to identity theft is overshadowed by the gain of becoming the hottest accessory to that yoga mat lying next to your Birkenstocks. More importantly, coconut water is a drunken night out’s kryptonite. Taunt it with your most raucous frat party, provoke it with a bottle or two of Boone’s Farm, and even beer-before-liquor it, but this luscious, coconut delight stands defiantly giving the finger to hangovers. That perk alone is enough to justify keeping a few bottles in the fridge, or at least hitting happy hour a bit more frequently.
With a deluged cornucopia of options, let’s take it back to basics every once in a while and simply turn on the tap. If you are getting the urge to feel super trendy, er, environmentally friendly, just carry one of those faggy aluminum bottles. You’ll fit right in, and with the money you’re saving on goin’ tap, you can independently finance your crap-ass band’s new record rather than spamming me for donations on Kickstarter. Meanwhile, I think I’ll call up my best friend’s stepmother. She’s now Code Cougar, and with coconut water on the breath, I’m certainly not getting pussy anytime soon.