The Re-Finale

Every great artist has a comeback album/tour/blog. Justin Timberlake came out of nowhere in 2006 with Future Sex/Love Sounds, Barry White came storming back in 99’ with Staying Power, and who can forget when Michael Jordan came out of retirement in 93’ to become one of the best advertising agents since Ronald McDonald. Of course, there was that one time when Ronald came to your elementary school assembly and Jimmy kind of lost it because he was fucking terrified of clowns.

No cursing please. Anywho, I realize I’ve taken a pretty long leave of absence from the blogging business, and the blogging business being the nasty business it is, it’s not all that easy to just get back into it. It’s not like I write a bunch of stuff, click submit post, and it’s magically ready for you guys to read. No friends, before my brilliant material can make it to the intergalactic web I must pull strings you didn’t even know existed and bribe very powerful business tycoons. Business. Some people say I’ve lost touch with the masses, others don’t think I have enough blog-juice left in the tank. To these people I say, just read the first entry again . . . that was gold, dude. Also, please turn your attention to the chief of the dark colas, Dr. Pepper.

Now, through allegiance, I should be a supporter of Mr. Pibb, Dr. Pepper’s arch nemesis. You see, two of my friends were once an absurdly successful powerhouse hip-hop duo, and one of their songs was essentially a ballad for Mr. Pibb. And there was this other fellow, a very Mr. Grinch-like character if you will, who loved Dr. Pepper and whose name we will say for anonymity purposes to be Meith Kiccio - which brings me to the most traumatic experience of my life.

Circa sophomore year of high school. I’m doing my usual lunch thang – waiting in a justifiably long line for Vinnie the sweet old Italian lunch lady to put all her warm love into my daily Turkey sandwich. Vinnie's line was always three times as long as the next deli line, and you could see in the other lunch ladies' faces that they were visibly upset and jealous. I wait for probably near 20 minutes for my sandwich to be made but what felt like an eternity. I come back to my table to sit with the BeakSquad (that’s what people liked to call me and my friends back then), and everything was going well until I noticed I had forgotten napkins. When I got up and returned once again, I was forced to witness no other than Keith Miccio, I mean Meith Kiccio, tossing my hard earned sandwich into the garbage. The explanation? IT WAS TACO DAY. Not only did Meith forever turn me off from tacos but I also developed a debilitating sleep disorder, mostly from staying up long nights searching for answers.

Still, Dr. Pepper has the edge. Why would I pay less for a knockoff of Dr. Pepper that tastes exactly the same? Logic evades me. You might be thinking, you didn’t try very hard to keep him anonymous. Actually, I tried really, really hard.