Can a Brotha Get a Suicide?

What is The Suicide?

The
Suicide is a nonalcoholic beverage…

Wait. No… No… NO!… PLEASE! GOD! KEEP READING! I SWEAR TO CHRIST!

The Suicide is a nonalcoholic beverage that is prepared by a purchaser of a drinking apparatus who has
access to a fountain machine. The purchaser simply pours a small, equal amount of each provided soda into the cup. The drink usually consists of Coke (the liquid, negro
kind), Diet Coke (the liquid, negro kind), Sprite, Root Beer (the… liquid… negro… kind?), and Mountain Dew. It may be made with similar, shittier Pepsi
products.

"This amalgam of various carbonated elixirs is, in short, the ambrosia, nay, the absinth, of the fast food world."

The question of what’s actually in the drink, however, lies in the number of variants of each fountain machine. The choices that these
machines offer may vary from standard American classics, such as Cherry Coke and Vanilla Coke, to unpopular foreign rejects, such as Pepsi and lukewarm saltwater mixed
with camel spit (available only in Middle Eastern Burger Kings).

A question many of The Suicide’s fans may ask might go like this: “Will there be Country Time
Lemonade?! That dank shit Nestea?! Will I be forced to drink some shitty flavor of Powerade? The question, indeed: Who knows what will fill this large paper cup that I
have in my masculine, white hand?!”

This is not a racist or sexist question, however. The simple truth is that The Suicide is a drink for a
certain demographic. Women always get Diet Coke (because they should stay skinny for me), Asians always get water (because their little eyes make it appear to be Sprite),
and blacks always get grape soda (because it tastes better on their big lips).

Statistics, unlike gang drive-bys, are rarely planned to hurt anyone.

The Poem

Please allow me to now poetically illustrate why The Suicide is the most palatable beverage in the
universe.

The Suicide

The Syrup erects my Nipples!

The Carbonation eats my Cum!

I am sexually attracted to trees.

When I drink it,

I am horny for it

But, maybe,

I am just

Plain old

Horny…

No. That couldn’t be!

The Suicide is fucking

Gnarly

with

a

capital

G.

(Pepsi sucks

and white guys

talk like this:

did you see the baseball game?

helluva game.

yep.

Well Bill,

I’m headed home

to make sweet,

awkward love

to my flat-assed wife.)

The end.

Yes, regardless of what combination of beverages the restaurant of your choosing has, this amalgam of various carbonated elixirs is, in
short, the ambrosia—nay, the nectar—nay, the absinth of the fast food world. Surely, Allah smiled the day Mohammed created this sanctified drink. At
3:13 AM, Thursday, October 6^th, in his kiddie-porn meth lab.

(See me for pictures.)

Why “The Suicide?”

Though I’m not really sure how the name “The Suicide” developed, I can only testify to
the nonbelievers that it, indeed, was the result of a very pleasurable death. After all, overdosing on The Suicide is like having
four coked-out models fuck you and suck you and rub
you until you jizz out parts of your heart. This smells of raw sausage and looks like red Play-Doh. Yum.

But regardless of its roots, the word is unlike any other word in the history of human language. You see, “The
Suicide” is the first and only word that succinctly captures the essence of the object it describes. For example, the word “bush”
cannot and does not perfectly describe how beautiful a woman’s pubic region is. Nor can the word “tree” effectively convey how fucking sexy a tree is
(See poem above.)

However, in contrast, the self-determined peril associated with mixing drinks like Hawaiian Punch and Mellow Yellow may only be
accurately described by the act of killing oneself.

Think about it: what other beverage could be named after eating a whole bottle of sleeping pills? Or shooting oneself in the brain? Or
fucking the AIDS-ridden Paris Hilton and dying of pneumonia a few years later?

The only thing that would improve The Suicide is if retailers would finally decide to include these
beverages for their fountain choices:

Whipped cream

Rolling Rock

Maple syrup

Liquid butter

Feminist pussy excrement (it gives it a bit of an edge)

Where is The Suicide?

I must admit that it’s quite surprising that not many people have committed The
Suicide…’s existence to memory (zing!). Some have never known of the greatness of The Suicide at all!
This is so bewildering, in fact, that I’ve decided to do a small test over the course of the last few days, in order to see how familiar people are with my
soft drink o’ choice.

Let’s do it.

The following is the account of trying to get The Suicide at the drive-ins of various fast food joints in the greater Morgantown area. I
also decided that I’d use some different voices and shit to see which works best in receiving this rock-boppin’ drink.

In the following piece, I have included its name in red throughout, in order to properly warn you that The
Suicide is extremely addictive. Also, the wondrous, all-knowing FDA caught wind of my article and kindly and tactfully asked me to show you this:

Surgeon General’s Warning: The Suicide significantly increases the risk of developing the following cancers: stomach, liver, kidney,
breast, brain, skin, pancreatic, testicular, eye, and ovarian. You should not drink it if you are pregnant or can become pregnant.

Yet…

The taste! The beauty! The pure, untainted innocence! Yes, The Suicide is the perfect beverage to prime yourself for a nice, warm
circlejerk.

Though, faggots best not get married!

Let’s slam it, mother fuckers.

Arby’s: Tuesday, 4:09 PM

Personality?

The Suicide Kid

Song Playing?
Dashboard Confessional, “Remember to Breath”

The Convo?
(Hello and welcome to Arby’s, may I take your order?)

…

(Hello?)

…Yes, sorry, I’ve just had a rough day. Can I have a minute please?

(Sure!)

…You know what, my fucking girlfriend left me for my 13-year-old brother. They think I have testicular cancer and I can’t itch a
scratch… or scratch an itch… or whatever the fuck because my pinky’s broken. GODDAMNIT!!! IT’S JUST ROUGH BEING ALIVE.

(…Yes…okay…um…)

I loved her…

(…)

Hello?

Manager or another dude: (Can I help you?)

I’ll have two melts and some goddamned curly fries.

(Anything to drink?)

*Sigh* Yeah… I guess I’ll just have a suicide.

([A suicide, sir?)

Yeah… you don’t know what a fucking suicide is?

(No sir, I do not.)

WELL FUCK ME. CHRIST MOTHER FUCK. FUCK THIS WORLD. I’M OUT.

Suicide?
Negative

Spit in food?
Negative

Manager Treatment?
Impressive!

Chick-Fil-A: Thursday, 1:33 PM

Personality?

The Suicide Connoisseur

Song Playing?
The Proclaimers, “I Would Walk 500 Miles”

Conversation?
(Thanks for choosing Chick-Fil-A, what can I get for you?)

Yes, I’ll have two of the most Original Chicken Sandwiches in your inventory.

(…)

That shalt be everything that I shalt consume!

(Um… and to drink?)

A suicide, por favor.

(A suicide?)

Yes, a mixture consisting of equal parts of your carbonated fountain beverages.

(I… don’t… think… I can do that.)

Do you have a fountain machine?

(Yes.)

Do you have manual access to said fountain machine?

(Um… yes…)

Well then, I’d gladly play extra for you to do it yourself.

(…)

How much would it cost me? I’m willing to pay TOP DOLLAR.

(Um…)

May I speak with your manager?

(He’s not on duty…)

Well… then… Christ be with you.

Suicide?

Negative.

Spit in Food?
Negative.

God Factor?
Ever-present.

McDonald’s: Friday, 2:56 AM

Personality?

The Suicide Badass

Song Playing?
Foreigner, “Jukebox Hero”

Conversation?

(McDonald’s. Would you like to try a value meal?)

No, but I’ll tell what this rocker motherfucker would like.

(*Laughter in the background* …Yes?)

THE Suicide.

(Alright, a Suicide.)

Make that TWO, THE SUICIDES. A double-shot of Sprite. Both large. And your greasiest Big Mac… or
Whooper… whatever’s just layin’ around back there.

(That’ll be
$6.18. Please pull through to second window.)

Rock on, brother.

Suicide?
Affirmative.

Spit in food?
Negative.

Suicide taste ranking?
8.5 out of 10 (a tad too much Diet Coke for my liking).

Okay and I realize it isn’t a restaurant… per se… but I thought I’d have a little fun with…

1-800-Suicide

Personality?

The Suicide Junkie

Conversation?
(You’ve reached the National Hopeline Network. Your call is being routed to the nearest counselor available.
Please hold as it will only take a few minutes. If this is a medical emergency, please hang up and dial 911.)

I just… want a suicide…

(Music****—Hopeline.)

Hi, I was just… okay, before I start don’t say anything, please just listen. I have this friend, see… and all he talks
about see... is The Suicide…

(Mhm…)

I SAID NOT TO TALK!

(…)

Anyway… well… I’m starting to think about The Suicide too. How it feels. How really I
can choose how I do it. How it would taste… I mean, really, sometimes I prefer Coke… and sometimes I prefer Diet Coke.

(Diet Coke?)

Sometimes I even add a lil’ Mountain Dew. But it’s tricky see… you gotta add the right amounts of stuff or the whole damned
thing just—

(Click.)

The Cleanup

From these social experiments, I’m only able to state a few facts learned:

-McDonald’s employees are smarter than I anticipated… I’m going to suggest the GED and ITT Tech to each employee from now
on. Who knows, they might be able to buy that a doublewide of their dreams!

-1-800-SUICIDE really isn’t prepared to satisfy my needs. Moreover, they could have seriously put my life in jeopardy… if
say, I was actually suicidal and just speaking in terms of a very complicated metaphor. I think they should be more prepared for shit like that.

-Pepsi. Fucking. Sucks.

The Results

-My hatred of Arby’s and Chick-fil-A.

-My unwavering support of McDonald’s

-A new awareness and happiness for my ancestor’s rapage of ancestral Indian women.

-My apathy for McDonald’s “hamburgers” consisting of kangaroo tail and gym mat.

They’ve got The Suicide and are 100% compliant with my desires to drink it; so, who cares?

-Pepsi fucking sucking.

As for the rest of you…. Say it ain’t so, world. Say it ain’t so.

Get with the program. Start ordering it. And try asking for the 1/5^th whipped cream, 1/5^th Rolling Rock,
1/5^th maple syrup, 1/5^th liquid butter, and 1/5^th feminist pussy excrement version.

It’s fucking SCRUMPTIOUS.

Your friend,

Nick MOTHERFUCKIN’ Gaudio

This article brought to you by:

Marlboro

Rolling Rock

P.F.S.W.T.: People for Sex With Trees

Coke (the liquid, negro kind)

and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter: Spray