Dear Gatorade,

This is a letter of both true praise and angry condemnation. A certain product that you made once saved my life. For that I will always be grateful. Here is my story:

When I was just a 23 year old bright eyed blossoming internet celebrity, people had already begun to try and tear me down. The most notable of these haters was a little company known as KFC (it used to stand for Kentucky Fried Chicken, and there are several unproven conspiracy theories on why they have switched to the acronym. I don’t know who to believe, a huge fast food chain or a conspiracy theorist with unsightly glasses. The irrelevance of this parenthetical is almost overwhelming. Almost) I had stopped into one of Colonel Sanders� franchises for what I called “Chicken Strips”. I was confused a little because I didn’t know if they had acronymed these into C strips or not. So I ordered them, ate them and then went to go ride my skateboard (way before it was commercially favorable to ride skateboards.) One hour into my skateboard session, I started to feel what I would call “dizzy, woozy, and really really really fucked up.” My first thought was, “Good fucking lord, I am out of shape.” My second thought was, “I need a cigarette.” My third thought was said out loud to my friend, “I’m gonna go lay down in my Jetta (also before everyone in my demographic drove Jetta�s). So as I was laying in my Jetta relaxing to some Wu-Tang Clan, I was overcome with the feeling to throw up. So I stuck my head out the door and threw up. It was at this point that I knew that I learned who to blame. I had been poisoned. Poisoned in the worst way; salmonella. It seems that the Colonel didn’t F his C for the allotted amount of time. I text messaged my friends (somehow because this is way before text messaging was invented) My text said this:

I 8 bad chick n. c u l8tr. could u pls bring 2 me sum g8tohr8d. and ginger l. and h20. thx. I totally appreci8 it.

hearts,
king

I pulled myself up the stairs to my small but charming yet overwhelmingly superbly interior decorated one bedroom apartment. I was living alone at the time and knew that I would have to battle this horrible saga on my own. I asked my neighbors to check on me once a day to make sure that I had not passed on to a much better place, meaning a bigger apartment with a better view. My friend showed up with the liquid that I had requested. Through my sickened haze which felt a lot like being on LSD, I saw my life blood. These were to be my saviors over the next 5 days of hell. 10 gallons of water. 4 bottles of ginger ale. And 5 bottles of Watermelon Gatorade.

Ok. I hate watermelon. I hate the actual living ones. I hate watermelon Jolly Ranchers. I hate Watermelon Starburst. But your watermelon flavored Gatorade… It was like tasting the wine of the gods, without alcohol and the opposite hydrating qualities. So, it was nothing like the wine of the gods, really. More like the Gatorade of the…..

I had made my bed in the room that I would live in for the next week, my bathroom. It was comfy enough, and its proximity to my porcelain receptacle friend (my humor is never blue, so these details are deleted on purpose). I had no strength to sit up so my protocol was this:

-drink watermelon Gatorade.
-pass out for 3 minutes.
-throw my hand to the toilet bowl, hooking my fingers, and struggle to sit up to center my face over the bowl.
-fall backward.
-drink water.
-repeat.

The sweet taste of the Gatorade kept me going. Had it not been for that, and the hot girls who would get topless and wet me down, I would not be here today.

It is seven years since I made it through those trying times. I have yet to walk into a KFC fast food franchise chain restaurant. I never will again, until they decide to make some reparations.

Now Gatorade, though I owe you my life, here is the beef that I have with you. You no longer make Watermelon Gatorade, gods sweet nectar. You don’t even actually make real flavors, it is: Frost, Xtreme Purplyblue, Red Danger, and Electricity Juice. What happened to fruits? Please, for all of the people that the Colonel might poison in the future, bring back the Watermelon flavor. Or at the very least, send me all that you might have remaining in the warehouse. It would be in your best interest. I am the voice of My American Demographic, and I have spoken.

Sincerely,
Jason F King

P.S. The commercials with the colorful sweat aren’t really working for me or anyone that I know. But, I do almost like the one that explains your history from the Florida college football team. I like history better than odd colors of sweat. Thank you for your time.