Look, I long ago made peace with the way in which, over the course of a distractingly normal childhood, the good folks as the Coca-Cola Company hooked me on fountain soda. No bottle or can of is equal to the cup with crushed ice—to that magical humming machine, mixing the fizz and fructose syrup in perfect ratios as they shoot down from the tap. Modern art genius Robert Irwin knows what I’m talking about.
The Coca-Cola ‘Freestyle’ soda fountain, however, a supposed leap forward in the world of customized soft-drink delivery, is an abomination I will not endure. You don’t have to sample all 127 flavors on offer to know that each is in some way contaminated by whatever dribbled out previously—that even an order of Coca-Cola classic has hints of root beer and, like, whatever chemical is supposed to be the lime in Diet Coke with Lime. (If I could get an order of Bud Lite with Lime, I might not be so irate.)
And by the way, who the hell is drinking these freak flavors? Are you the same idiots who went for "suicides" on regular soda fountains? Why are such people even allowed in the same fast-food courts as me? Now that the novelty of a patently worthless device has waned and these hulking vats of undifferentiated tooth decay are the norm in highway rest stops, will I be condemned to seek out vintage soda at the grimy strip-mall pizza joint with a 'C' health rating? I think so. I gave you so many chances, Freestyle machine. Because addicts are forgiving that way.