I have to admit, the first time I tried Red Bull, I absolutely hated it. It was the beginning of a long bus ride from Boston, all the way down to Wilmington. I had been handed a free can of Red Bull by a Red Bull promo team out scouting the malleable youth of New England. I had fallen for their trick. Anything free must be good, right? Upon opening the can, I realized otherwise. The smell of Robitussin seeped out from the large aluminum capsule. Disturbed, I took a sip. Gross! I nearly ejected the liquid in my mouth onto the poor, unsuspecting bus passenger to my right. Etiquette in mind, I thought better of beginning a seven hour bus ride by puking on my seat buddy, so I swallowed. The first thought that came to my mind was “carbonated cough syrup.” Not knowing what to do with the rest of the beverage, I quickly downed it, wincing as the chemical concoction made its way down my throat. The bus driver looked back at me. “HaHA!” he exclaimed in a manner reminiscent of the wicked witch of the west. “You won’t be getting any sleep on the trip now!” I could swear he called me “my pretty,” but perhaps this was the taurine taking effect.

Five years passed before I drank another Red Bull. I moved around from energy drink to energy drink, being the trendy person I am. Sometimes I even drank *gasp* coffee. But to be honest, nothing I found during that five year period came close to inspiring in me the sheer horror that Red Bull had inspired. And after a while, I realized that it was the horror that had gripped me tightly and had kept me from falling asleep. Caffeine, taurine, creatine, pyridoxine HCl, none of these things could keep me alert. But the thought that I was slowly drowning in a pool of bubbly expectorant did the trick nicely. And so, as my work load steadily increased, I realized I had made a mistake in leaving the disgusting beverage that a few underpaid foot soldiers of the Red Bull marketing machine had pawned off on me half a decade before.

Today, a whole eight years after my first sip, I am a Red Bull drinker. But it doesn’t stop there. In a phase of health-conscious behavior a year or two ago, I decided to try sugar free Red Bull. I do not exaggerate when I assert that there has never been a concoction more foul, more odious, more fear inspiring than sugar free Red Bull. It is as if a thousand pixies descend upon your tongue and painlessly rip off your taste buds, replacing them instead with rot and liquid pharmaceuticals. For this reason, when I am driving late at night, or studying into the wee hours of the morning, sugar free Red Bull is my drink of choice.

Red Bull, like scotch and Kansas, is an acquired taste. I certainly do not expect you to all run out to your nearest convenience store and buy a 12 pack of Red Bull after reading this. But maybe some of you will give it another shot. It is not the type of drink you pick up and enjoy immediately. Rather, you develop a love-hate relationship with it. You try to get away, you run and cower, only to realize that it has followed you. You cannot escape it, and eventually you realize that, as with any effective drug, after a while, you need it. It gives you wings. They say so in the commercials. So here’s to you Red Bull. Without your mind-controlling hallucinogenic powers, who knows how many papers I would have turned in even later!

One must keep his friends close,  but his enemies closer. With this in mind, I took a short trip to Europe to see how lazy and weak our colonial oppressors had become. I was not disappointed.

One item however caught me off guard.  It was a tinge of creativity in seas of ash, the last spark of greatness in an otherwise dead and desolate land. They call it sorbet. At first it seemed much like sherbet, but there was a subtle yet important difference between the two–sorbet is lactose free. But wait, there’s more. Instead of one of the standard sherbet flavors (orange, green, red), this was basil-flavored. The cool flavor of the sorbet was accented by the basil, and provided a delicious and refreshing end to my meal.

Friends, I must say I am impressed–impressed enough, in fact, that I can no longer say that Europe is not a threat. If they can take good old American sherbet, and transform it into basil-flavored sorbet, think of what they could do to the auto industry, or apple pie.  The sleeping frenchman may yet awaken and commit to a 5 day work week.  When that happens, God help us all.

The news struck quickly and violently. I had invested heavily in a stuffed flounder dinner, and was in the process of making my way into the filling when the waiter came back and asked how I was enjoying my meal.

“It’s splendid,” I replied. Pointing the fork at the breaded exterior, I asked, post-swallow, what the chef had stuffed in the flounder.

“Crab meat, of course,” replied the waiter, smiling and leaning over to refill my water glass with water from a beautiful crystal pitcher.

“Mmm, but there’s something distinct about it,” I noted with an inquisitive glance. “What type of crab is it? Blue crab? Mangrove? King? The meat is excellent, and I must know what brave crab gave his all so that I might enjoy his succulent innards.”

With an uneasy smile, the waiter assured me that he would go to the kitchen and find out for me. I thanked him and continued to enjoy my food. It was around this time that I noticed a young brunette woman a few tables over who appeared to have taken a disproportionate interest in what I was doing. I looked over, smiled and gave a polite nod. She quickly opened a newspaper and began to read it. The waiter returned, looking pink and jittery. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what type of crab it is,” he said.

“Then I would like to speak to the chef,” I said, slightly perturbed and a little more inquisitive.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” quivered the waiter.

“And why is that?” I asked. The restaurant grew quiet. The woman a few tables over put down her news paper and watched the waiter intently.

“Because,” the waiter began.

“Because he doesn’t exist,” said a voice behind me. It was the hostess. “This operation is run with precooked food.”

“And my stuffing?!” I demanded.

“Imitation.”

With that, the woman with the newspaper stood up, along with two men from the bar who were dressed in suits, and walked over to the hostess.

“I’m Agent Mahi of the Seafood Exactitude Commission,” the woman said to the hostess.

The hostess looked back, shrugged, and replied, “There is no innocent explanation.”

“Take her away, boys,” said Agent Mahi, and the two burly men from the bar cuffed the hostess and led her out of the restaurant. Then Agent Mahi looked back at me. “Well done,” she said. “You have just assisted in the capture of an elusive, brilliant scam artist. The SEC had been tracking her for quite some time.”

Another man in a suit, whom I had not previously seen, came walking out of the kitchen and over to Agent Mahi. “Just as we suspected, ma’am. Nothing but microwaves. No people, no pots or pans. Nothing real at all. It was all fake. All an illusion.”

Agent Mahi looked only half stuneed. “How did she do it?” she asked. “How did she keep them all going, all on her own?”

“I suppose she had help from the waiter,” replied the agent who had come from the kitchen.

“I guess you’re right. But still, that’s incredible.” Agent Mahi turned back toward me. “The SEC thanks you for your help with this, even if you had no idea what was going on.” She looked back at the other agent. “Well, I suppose we’ll have tons of paperwork to do when we get back. Might as well get started.”

“What about my money?” I asked. “What about my crab meat?”

“I’m sorry,” Agent Mahi replied. “It’s gone. There never was any crab meat. Just some pasted Alaskan Pollock made to resemble the real thing. It was all a hoax. But you can take comfort knowing that this criminal will never rip off another unsuspecting seafood lover again.”

As she turned for the door, I called out in a flashy show of 1940s over-the-top melodrama, “Agent Mahi, don’t I even get a first name?”

“You already know it,” she responded coolly. Then she left the restaurant.

I looked around, my life in shambles, my faith in my favorite seafood establishment gone, my faith in seafood in general  shaken. The waiter had been taken to the car with the hostess, but not before he dropped the crystal pitcher on the ground. Shattered glass lay strewn about the floor, as did the false dreams they had built themselves, the hostess and the waiter. All a hoax. All a scam. As I said, the news struck quickly and violently.