Like most parents who are getting older, my day-to-day existence now is fully dependent on a hefty supply of caffeine, ibuprofen and the uncertain hope that every unexpected fart is a safe one.
It was with this in mind after the school drop-off this morning I knew my caffeine reserves were hitting a low level and without an immediate dose of the good stuff I’d potentially be found lying in the road outside the nearby local Butchers, fully asleep clutching a bag of steak mince and further holding up the stramash of traffic that battles its way through the ridiculous ‘Wild West’ of a town square junction.
And frankly, when like me you’ve got the body shape of a shaved and well-fed hog, all it would take would be a profit-hungry employee to run out of that Butcher shop thinking the delivery lorry dropped some stock before I’d wake up hung by the ankles in his freezer with a Granny Smith jammed in my mouth.
So I jumped in my car and drove down to the local shop, where I knew the wonderful Maureen would happily serve me two of their finest large cans of Monster and ask me for ID, since she’s nice and wants you to feel like you’re not as old as Cleopatras’ bathwater. Sadly she wasn’t there, but another helpful fellow beeped me through without a second glance, threw my two cans of heavily caffeinated power sauce into one of those useless green bags and away I went.
True to form, I had taken no more than three steps into the car park when the arse-end of said bag decided that it could no longer suffer the stress of two carbonated drinks and shat its contents onto the ground. One tin bounced and danced across the tarmac while my lightning-quick reflexes grabbed the other as it fell. Gathering up the now well-bruised and shaken can from the ground, I jumped into my car and dumped them both into the passenger seat beside me.
Grabbing the tin that I had saved from hitting the ground, I cracked it open and prepared for the sweetener-laced caffeine monstrosity to hit my nervous system. However, it turns out that my old man memory failed me, and I had grabbed the wrong can.
Rather than the slight smell of sweetened nectar hitting my nostrils as expected, instead I was faced with what can only be described as a ‘Carbonated Hand-Grenade’ as the can ejaculated its foamy contents out the mouth spout at full pressure.
At least 250ml of the high-pressure contents inserted itself forcefully into my nostrils while the rest of the liquid spanked itself all over the full cabin width of my poor Volkswagen, hitting my face with such ferocity that I’m pretty sure it ripped off at least one eyebrow and a wide selection of eyelashes.
I had let go of the can at this point, and it had decided to take its future into its own hands and land open-end down into my lap, where now the remaining dribbles of Taurine and L-Carnitine decided to completely soak the crotch of my manly jeans.
Well, I couldn’t go back into the shop now and ask for a cloot to give myself a decht with, could I? The ever-helpful Maureen wasn’t there, and the rest of the staff who didn’t know me would just be asking why a soggy Sasquatch who clearly had bladder issues and was on the brink of crying would be asking for a spare tea towel.
So if I happen to see you later today, perhaps at school pick-up, I have subsequently showered but don’t be shocked if I’m carrying the slight stench of Monster Energy Zero Sugar and disappointment about me.. 😬
