Americans are the most active people on Earth. In a country where one is defined by their achievements, the ability to complete the maximum amount of tasks in the shortest time is considered a virtue and laziness a sin. After all, time is money. Our modern technology simply creates extra time to do more work. There’s no doubt about it: Just when your checklist seems complete, there’s always more to be done. When there is more to be done, we require what any other physical system requires to do work–energy.
The colored bulls of Asia have long been coveted for their high levels of ELD, or Energy Level Distribution, commonly known as sweat. In early Japan, samurai warriors would drink the sweat of a bull, preferably a red bull, before going to battle.
This sweat had an intoxicating effect. Soldiers would fight harder and longer than their foes. Samurai referred to the sweat as “Chee Chee Ching Chang” or “drink which gives wings.”
Of course, the sweat of a bull is no more magical than Michael Jackson’s lap. Yet hundreds of years later, the product was brought to the western world, and now college students across America pay $2 a can of bullsweat.
I would drink Red Bull for late-night cram sessions. But eventually, I grew tired of the small portions Red Bull offered. I’m an American, I need more energy! There is more work to be done!
My prayers were soon answered.
Mick Jagger, lead singer of the Rolling Stones, has unusually high ELD. Two years ago, scientists captured Jagger and brought him to a private facility, where he runs on a 25-foot hamster wheel 12 hours a day. Jagger’s sweat, which averages 100 gallons per day, is canned and distributed throughout the U.S. under the appropriately named energy drink, Rockstar.
Red Bull comes in a puny 8-oz. can. Rockstar, however, is the real deal. Only a true energy fiend could handle 24 ounces of battery juice, milk thistle and B-Vitamins dancing through their body. Finally, I can build granny that poolside deck she has always wanted.
The day I drank my first Rockstar, I thought to myself, “This is what Steven Segal must feel like right before he beats up everyone in the room.” My eyes became beady, my left hand began to tremble and the song “Eye of the Tiger” began playing in my head. I didn’t blink for three hours. I ran to every class and even managed to stop a mugging. But eventually, the mid-sized can simply was not enough.
I wanted more energy.
I thought I had drank it all. Then I found Monster Energy drink, which is like Busta Rhymes on speed.
If you have seen the Disney documentary “Monster’s Inc.” then you know monsters are real. Recently, scientists have captured the sweat of Bigfoot and packaged it under the appropriately named: Monster.
Diabetics, small pets or freshman should not consume Monster Energy drink; it is simply too powerful. The can is the size of a Jamaican baby. That’s right, 96-ounces of pure caffeine, crack and sweet B-Vitamins; it’s like a warm shot of rage to your heart.
I had just finished a Monster Energy drink when I was pulled over by a police officer. I got rude, and the officer tried to arrest me. I looked at him and said, “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.” He put the handcuffs on me anyway, then I started doing one of those maniacal movie laughs. Then I busted out of the cuffs like they were Playskool ‘My First Handcuffs’ and slapped the cop with his own left leg. Then I took the car, broke it over my right knee and ran down the highway laughing at everyone swerving to avoid hitting me. I think I may have even eaten a deer. By the time I got home the Monster effect had worn off but I couldn’t go to sleep; I just collapsed into my bed, twitching uncontrollably until I fell asleep.
My name is Jamaal Bachelor and I am a Rockstar Monster.