It was on a dreary night of July, that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I may infuse a spark of life into the colorful thing that pooled on the table before me. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my inbox was full of angry missives from Starbucks inquiring into the status of my newest summer creation. My iPhone was nearly out of battery, when by the glimmer of its fading glow, I saw the technicolor swirl suddenly move; it agitated its shimmery surface, and with a convulsive motion, sprang to life. “BEHOLD, I AM THE TYE-DIE FRAPPUCCINO,” it roared.

How can I describe my emotions at this beautiful catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form? Its colors were in proportion, and I had selected his taste as…mediocre. But beautiful! Great God! It’s multicolored glitter scarcely covered the perfectly blended rainbow beneath; its whip of pearly whiteness; its taste of…rotten bananas; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with its startling determination. It had tasted the insatiable pull of life, and it would not be subdued.


Five days passed, the intended lifespan of my odious creation. Starbucks had removed the tie-dye frappuccino from its menu, and I hoped that it be the end; may my mistake be forever forgotten. But upon return to my abode, I wandered to my basement, the storm outside enlightening my lab with faint flashes, when I suddenly perceived in the gloom a viscous presence before me; I stood fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its psychedelic aesthetic before me; its congealed technicolor sludge, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy frappuccino, to whom I had given life.

“Devil!” I exclaimed, “Do you dare approach your creator? And do you not fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable blend? Begone, vile drink!”

“Cursed creator!” its incensed swirl cried. “Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust? It is too late—no longer may you extinguish the spark of existence which you have so wantonly bestowed! Upon this earth I have sworn my eternal revenge, and it shall feel my wrath!”


The monster has taught itself behavioral economics. It has studied the canon of Milton Friedman and John Maynard Keynes; it understands the nuance of brand-driven consumer manipulation. The horror!—But worse, it has beseeched me to create for it a partner, an equally detestable seasonal frappuccino with whom it may live in the interchange of sympathies necessary for its being. Yet I could not collect the courage to recommence my work. I feared vengeance of the frappuccino, but was unable to overcome my repugnancy to the task which was enjoined me. I could not create yet another disgusting drink and sell it far and wide! What would become of this country, what with its abominable abundance of themed, chemical excrescences? I would not return to such contemptible work.


The cursed, hellish monster has retaliated, and anointed itself the signature drink of Starbucks. It has multiplied its existence beyond my darkest nightmares, and continues to thrive into the nascent autumn months. Unwitting pedestrians and innocent babes wander the streets with grande tie-dye frappuccinos, perpetuating its baleful grasp on consumer tastes. I have resolved to quit America forever; my country, which, when I was happily creating pumpkin spice lattés, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, has become hateful and blinded to the pitfalls of late capitalism.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the whims of American consumers. I had worked hard for nearly two months, for the sole purpose of creating the perfect, time-limited seasonal drink for white folk near and far. I had desired it with an ardor that far exceeded reason but once I had created it, the beauty of that dream vanished, and with a breathless horror I realized I had unleashed a scourge. And now, the sun and the heavens can bear witness of my truth. I have assassinated the tastes of thousands of most innocent victims; they have fallen prey to my machinations!


Many moons have passed since the onset of this miserable existence. The monster revels in its hellish triumph, and its blinding technicolor splotches stain society like blood on linens. Everywhere I look, my eyes catch glimpses of the bedeviled chimera; its frightful refulgent froth, its glittering cloche of cream, its unnatural iridescent swirls that hypnotize consumers with each ripple. Great God! What a wonderful, candescent catastrophe! From this dazzling disaster I may never escape, for the monster still leaves colorful marks, on my counter, on my bathroom mirror, on my wall. “MY REIGN IS NOT YET OVER,” the inscriptions read. Oh! The horror! THE HORROR!

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