BOW TO YOUR NEW GOD

"Yo, check out the crunkolina," Julio enthuses at me, elbowing me as he does square in the rubs.

"The what?" I ask him, happy for the opportunity to rub where he
elbowed me, as it keeps it warm while we browse the refrigerated juice
aisle.

He points to a carton in the corner, Minute Maid Cherry Limeade.

"Why do you call it crunkolina?" I ask, grabbing a carton off the
shelf. The artwork pines for a retro 50s feel. I guess they used to
sling this shit all the time at drive throughs where waitresses wore
roller skates and everyone feared commies.

"I dunno, it was on urban dictionary and shit. It's supposed to be
like crunk juice, only with gasolina," Julio sort of explains.

"Gasoline?" I ask, suddenly less enthusiastic about drinking this stuff.

"No, no gasolina. It's like slang and shit. It means you like the skeet," he says further muddying the issue.

"What's a skeet?" I ask.

"Fuck if I know, but this shit's the gasolina bomb, yo."

"Allright, I'll try some."

"Gasolina also means sperm," Julio laughs.

I put the carton down and immediately start to leave. Julio chuckles
behind me, his trademark back-of-the-throat cackle muffled by the
loaves of bread stacked next to him. He grabs the carton, still
laughing, his arms swinging wide as he grabs it, trying to impersonate
the actors who pretend to be amused Latino gangsters in movies.

"Don't worry about it, man. I think he meant the skeet definition."
Julio chuckles. He presses the carton into my hands and walks off,
still chuckling.

What the hell, I say to myself. I twist the cap off the carton, pull out the plastic disc inside, and take a swig.

The first immediate thing I notice is that my tongue has an intense
orgasm. This is followed by my teeth, my gums, my throat and eventually
my stomach. The flavor is beyond the power of mere Gods. This is the
universe, the clearest essence of all the good deeds that can ever be
accomplished, compressed into a singularity, diluted with clear spring
water of everlasting love. It sort of tastes like pink starburst.

When I come to, I'm sprawled on the dirty tiles of the refrigerated
juice section of Bi-Lo, the carton clutched to my chest. At some point,
I'd finished the whole thing. I don't remember anything after that
first sip.

I look down, and see a wet spot in my pants. Turns out they didn't mean the skeet definition.

In short: Minute Maid Cherry Limeade is fucking delicious.