Energy drinks not for the middle aged

Being middle aged, I am expected to not understand, appreciate, enjoy and even partake of many things the younger people enjoy. I do remember being a young person when I was expected to do things middle aged people did not do.

With those memories and $5 bill firmly in hand, I decided to investigate this thing called “energy drinks.” As a person who once drank a pot of chicory coffee every day, I figured this “energy drink” was going to put me right to sleep.

Two days later, yep, I went right to sleep and didn’t wake up for 20 hours. The label on the can said there would be no “crash” once the drink wore off. They lied. I crashed and laid right there on the floor for those 20 hours. Everyone was afraid to move me because they were worried I might explode.

Had I been conscious, I would have worried that I was going to explode. Or catch fire from the friction of moving so fast. I reminded myself of the comic book character The Flash.

I was able to enjoy writing several news stories in less than 5 seconds, which equates to more words per minute than the federal government can spend dollars to increase the deficit. Scientists from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory are studying me to see if the speed of light can actually be exceeded and regardless, can we power a rocket with an energy drink.

These things are not energy drinks. They are amphetamines in a can. I was more wired than a spider monkey after eating a crate of coffee beans and washing it down with a case of Mt. Dew.

I started challenging those little green-brown lizards to a race. I won too.

After choking down the stuff and washing it down with a pink lemonade, I went back to the office. On the drive back, I noticed traffic was moving slower and slower. What was wrong with these people? Was there a funeral or something. Never mind, I needed to get back to work. I glanced at the speedometer, which was also moving a tad slow and was also busted. There was no way I could be doing 85 miles per hour in a 35 miles per hour zone. Must take the truck to get that fixed.

At the office, I had to call the boss and tell her we have to replace the front door. It just fell right of the hinges when I opened it. As for the scorch marks on the floor, I have no idea how those got there.

I won’t say it tasted bad. That’s being generous. Apparently I got the one flavored “Slightly Rancid Camel Spit with just a touch of Wet St. Bernard Hair.” Somewhere in there was a hint of that medicinal cherry flavor you get from the stuff the dentist fills your mouth with as he prepares to extract your wallet through a bicuspid.

I don’t remember which drink I bought. I just remember it was very much more expensive than my customary pink lemonade. Hey. Don’t judge me, lest I have to come over there and with my energy drink super speed mode do something to you so fast you’ll never know it until I’m back in my chair typing another column. Now, don’t make me do it again.