May I ask a question? Yes? Okay, then. WHY DON’T THE GODS WANT ME TO HAVE SLURPEES? Yes, the frosty treats found at thousands of 7-11’s around the world. My love for Slurpees is no secret.
One time, I enjoyed a delectable peach Slurpee at a rest stop in Georgia on my way to Ozark, Alabama. I was an adventurous 12-year-old “summering” in Harrison, Maine the first time I tried a lemon-lime Slurpee. Three years ago, I cooled off from the hot, Malaysian sun with a Slurpee. I have no idea what flavor it was because shockingly, I don’t read Malay, but it was hot pink and that shit was awesome. I have always appreciated the fact that for $1.19, I can get a decent sized icy beverage on pretty much every corner. So why, pray tell, are the heavens against me drinking a Slurpee? I’m a huge believer in signs. In first grade when I was the same shoe size as my teacher, Mrs. Goldfarb, I knew that it was a sign that for the rest of my life, I would struggle to find shoes that fit me that weren’t from brands like Love My Comfort or Healthy Style. My first sign that Disney had a personal vendetta against me was when I lost the lead in That’s so Raven to one Ms. Raven-Symone. Bitch stole my career. Um, hello? A portly African-American lass with wonderful singing abilities, an expert sense of comedic timing, and a boatload of sass? Are you KIDDING me? Moving on, THREE events have transpired in the last seven days that have made me realize that something is going on.
INCIDENT NUMBER 1- SNUGGIE DANGER
Tuesday, January 25th. I walk into a 7-11 after my session at the gym. I usually eat a grapefruit after my workouts, but I was out of grapefruits, and my new favorite Slurpee is Snow Fruit. The Snow Fruit slurpee is lemon-lime with a splash of grapefruit flavoring in it. Samesies, right? So, I pump my Snow Fruit slurps (that’s what us regulars call them) all the way to the top. Note: the people who fill the cup and put the lid on WITHOUT then going back and sticking the nozzle in the hole to fill the slurp to the top of the dome are idiots. So, I’m walking to the counter with my slurp, I have my quarters and nickels ready, and then BOOM SMASH SPLAT. I open my eyes to find myself on all fours, with lemon lime with a splash of grapefruit flavoring all over my hands and jeans. I was in such a slurp haze, I wasn’t looking and I tripped over a pyramid of Snuggies. How fucking ironic. My number one favorite thing in the world got in the way of my number two favorite thing in the world. There is something very humbling about looking up to find a homeless man with four teeth staring down and laughing at you as he eats a 7-11 taquito and chugs some Mountain Dew. I apologized to the clerk whose name I know but I’m not going to say because I have a feeling I shouldn’t know the clerks name. I then sulked out of the store, Snow Fruit-free, sticky and wet. The only plus is that even though my jeans got wet, at least I wasn’t wearing my pajama jeans, which I WILL own in the very near future.
INCIDENT NUMBER 2- THE SHARP SHOVEL
Wednesday, January 26th. I hold my head up high as I breeze back in through those doors. I sashay past the hard donuts and stale slices of “pizza”, and get my slurp. I do my thing, top it off, walk successfully to the register, and leave with my slurp in tact. Hot dog. I drive home carefully, not so that I don’t slide on the ice, but so that I don’t spill any snow fruit, and I crawl into bed. I take ONE SIP and then SLASH! The bastard shovel part of the spoon cut my tongue! When I get fancy, I like to scoop some slurp and then drizzle it on my tongue the way ancient Romans (or Greeks…what's the diff?) would tilt their heads back and delight in grapes. Makes me feel classy. It just figured that I got a wonky-ass straw with a freakishly sharp edge. Make no mistake, I finished the slurp. All of it. But I still have an awkward nick on my tongue.
INCIDENT NUMBER 3- BLACK ICE
Saturday, January 29th. I was heading to a family party at my sisters (where I was forced to eat lasagne with chicken in it) and I was told to get some chips and salsa. 7-11 is easier than going into a store, so I sailed into that familiar parking lot. I get the goods and then go get a slurp. Did I really want one? Eh, not really. But I was there, so…duh. I get into my car and start backing out when all of the sudden, BAM SQUEEK CRUNCH. My tires hit a patch of black ice and my car fishtails and crashes into the back of someones car. Yea, I hit a parked car. Mother nature, you’re a dirty whore. I should have sailed off like Halle Berry, but my damn Jiminy Cricket started harassing me. Plus, the owner was sitting in the car and I was in no mood for a Paul Walker high speed chase that night. So she called a few days later and lets me know how much the damage will cost. $450! FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS! Do you know how many fucking slurps I could buy with that much money?! And I didn’t even do that much damage to her car.
I’m no mechanic, but there were no dents or anything. Couldn’t they just get a rag and some toothpaste (that’s how I polish my jewelry) and buff that shit out? Im calling x to the z Xzibit. He can help. He always does.
Five days, two slurps, three accidents. I just don’t understand. I ask for very little in this world. My two hours of the Bachelor every Monday (which I’m supposed to be boycotting for political reasons but I don’t because I am weak). A pair of designer sunglasses here and there. The dropping of a new Beiber song every once in a while. Is it too much to ask that I enjoy a $1.19 delight every now and then without tripping over slankets, drawing blood, or getting into and losing a fight with concrete? I just don’t get it. All I know is that if you are listening up there, Zeus, I want to let you and your bastard compadres know that this isn’t over.