Kool-Aid Man reflects on life of destruction

Sometimes I like to rent this space out to those that need to heal. Or if they have $5. This is one of those fortunate times I received both.


Hey gang, Kool-Aid Man here (you can call me Gene). I know what you’re thinking; “Gene, that should’ve been so much more aggressive of an entrance.” Look, I’m about to turn 60 and let’s just say my ice cubes aren’t as full and firm as they used to be. This jug has seen some miles.

I guess I just don’t have it in me anymore.

I appreciate Kelly giving me the chance to vent and share my story. He’s a nice guy, but keeps trying to stick a straw in my head. Not cool, dude.

Man, almost 60. That’s like 162 in drink years. My therapist said I should use this space to get some things off my jug, so here I am.

I remember like it was yesterday, the first time I went barreling through a door like a condensating Jack Nicholson from “The Shining,” only more delicious and cherry-flavored. The feeling of plaster and wood against my glass, kids screaming (WITH DELIGHT). It was a rush almost as amazing a rush as drinking a cool glass of Rock-A-Dile Red Kool-Aid on a hot summer’s day.

Sure, I’ll admit the first time I crashed through a wall was an accident (stupid Yorkshire Terrier). Some of the world’s greatest achievements happened by accident: microwaves, Penicillin, X-rays, Right Said Fred. But like stage actors getting their first taste of Broadway or politicians getting their first taste of power, I was hooked and nobody was going to talk me out of it because “you’re destroying lives.” No, sir.

And let’s not forget one little factoid: I can’t fit through regular doors! What am I going to do, just ring the doorbell and politely wait for a bunch of dehydrated youngsters to open the door? No! They’re lethargic from lack of proper hydration and likely couldn’t hear the bell over all their rambunctiousness, tomfoolery and cranked up MC Hammer jams on their Walkmans.

Hey, what’s the Internet?

I guess some part of me always knew what I was doing was wrong (busting into people’s homes, not satisfying their ex-treme thirst). But, seeing as though my brain consists of artificially flavored punch, I don’t think I should be held accountable for my actions. I mean, do you have any idea how much sugar is needed to properly make Kool-Aid in the quantities required to fill my jug? Let’s see you remain calm and NOT burst through dry wall with 47 cups of sugar swimming around your head.

I mean, sure, I left houses with a giant, gaping holes, but did the parents EVER thank me for keeping their children’s thirst so deliciously quenched? Of course not. I can tell you one thing, those parents whose walls I drinkploded always kept their children properly hydrated after that, so as far as I’m concerned mission accomplished.

And when did destroying property turn so un-kool? I fancied myself the “renegade beverage” you know, the kind fathers wouldn’t let their daughters drink.

Back in the day everybody was always so happy to see me bursting in, turning whatever game they were doing into flying debris. Sure, some kids got some minor injuries from shattered brick and cement, but in those days they just shook it off and thanked me for it as they were wiping away a little blood. It was nothing a chilly glass of Kool-Aid couldn’t fix. Actually, I’ve been told by my lawyers that Kool-Aid CAN’T be used as a medical aid. So, don’t do that I guess.

I suppose I should be thankful things have slowed down so much in the last 10 years. When kids these days have a thirst that just won’t quit they’re turning to “Vitamin Water” and “Fuse” and some energy drink nonsense called Red Bull.

“No, we’re good” they turn to me and say. Then I have to back out of the wall hole slowly like some kind of jerk.

Bunch-a sissies. You know all the energy you need is my head juice.

Yes, I’ve technically been charged with over 20,000 counts of breaking and entering and destruction of private property in my career. As it turns out, you can’t pay the fine in Pink Swimmingo, nor the accompanying lawyer fees, which is why I’m still out there working. I suppose I should probably stop all this destruction, but I’m set in my ways.

Man, getting a date hasn’t been easy, if you can imagine. Every time I try to kiss a lady she complains about getting a wet forehead. THERE ARE WORSE THINGS LADIES. Ultimately, they can’t get over the fact that aside from the human arms and legs, I’m just a giant jug.

This led to a few dark times. Like the time I got so low I poured alcohol in my head and stomped around the Las Vegas strip like Godzilla, proclaiming myself the “Gin-Aid Man!” It wasn’t a great time for me.

But I’m clean now. I guess I’ll keep doing what I’m doing. It’s not like kids are going to stop needing refreshment exploded into their drink holes. Every now and again they’ll smile (when they’re not frozen by terror) and, you know, that makes it all this worth it.

This is my job. I’m the Kool-Aid man.

Oh Yeah.

Kelly Van De Walle is the senior creative & marketing writer for Briscoe14 Communications (www.briscoe14.com). He can be reached at vandkel@hotmail.com or via message drawn on mirror while he’s showering. But don’t do that because, you know, creepy dude. Follow Kelly on Twitter @pancake_bunny for a treasure map to Crpe mountain!