We As A Family Cannot Afford Another Wall Broken By The Kool-Aid Man
Once the Kool-Aid Man visits your home, you can assume your well-manicured lawn will once again be soaked with cherry-flavored juice that I can only assume contains his vital organs.
Kids, I know you need something to drink. It’s hot outside, and frankly, I want to cool down, myself. But please, for the love of god, do not alert the Kool-Aid Man. Our family cannot afford another broken wall.
We know it was exciting for you children to see the Kool-Aid Man come bursting through the last time. But what you didn’t see were the many hours of cleanup your father and I spent scraping red dye 40 out of the linoleum. Also it turns out we had a multigenerational family of bats living in the wall, and the crash sent their droppings throughout the entire house. You weren’t the ones to explain our situation to the exterminator, nor did you have to deal with their judgy questions of whether or not we actually said “we sure are thirsty” out loud.
Insurance wouldn’t cover the cost of our shattered kitchen wall, because we hadn’t applied for Kool-Aid Man coverage. Your father and I thought that was just some odd marketing partnership with Allstate at the time. Please, can I get you some orange juice? Even soda. Anything to prevent the reclaimed brick with the painstakingly curated wall of family photographs from being shattered by what we had wrongly assumed was just a fictional character created for commercial purposes. I can’t stand idly by and allow for a catastrophic entrance with a satisfying cry of “Oh yeah.”
I understand we’re supposed to shield you from the harsh realities of adulthood, but your father and I had to take out a second mortgage, made only more expensive because at any moment our home could once again be destroyed by this massive anthropomorphic pitcher. We’ve become town pariahs and no one will associate or even make eye-contact with us. They know that we’re cursed, because once the Kool-Aid Man visits your home, you can assume your well-manicured lawn will once again be soaked with cherry-flavored juice that I can only assume contains his vital organs.
I don’t know how he was listening to our conversation about Kool Aid the last time. I’ve ransacked the house for clues. I think the Jenkins family next door might be to blame, because they judged me for letting you have Gatorade at soccer practice that one time. Have you kids been sneaking K-A? I promise I won’t ground you if you just tell me the truth of whether or not you’re associating with that jug of chaos outside the home. I’m not here to judge, because I’ve lost too many nights’ sleep about whether it’s the bay window or our custom built-ins the Kool-Aid Man will destroy next. Your father and I thought about setting booby traps, but not even cement can apparently shatter his ample glass body.
Your babysitter is still in the hospital because she was standing in his line of terror. I tried to get Kool-Aid’s parent company to pay for her medical bills, but when I called the Kool-Aid Jammer’s Jammin’ Hot Line, I was redirected twelve times before they told me it’s in the fine print on every package of their product that they’re not responsible for the actions of their living beverage when summoned. Not to mention we couldn’t hold the Kool-Aid Man, himself responsible in a court of law because he’s not technically a person. Even though what he literally did was breaking and entering with his drink that, if I’m being honest, is a little too sweet for me.
Seriously, can we go outside if you keep insisting on this drink that contains no actual real fruit? Anywhere we’re not encumbered by walls this chaotic vessel of Kool-Aid could potentially break through.
This Kool-Aid Man, and I didn’t want to tell you this but now feel I have to, he ruined your parents’ marriage. Your father is gone because he couldn’t handle the stress. Private investigators I hired with your college money found his keys and wallet in a Homewood Inn & Suites, next to a giant, Kool-Aid Man-shaped hole. He couldn’t outrun the curse. But I say no more! I will not allow the Kool-Aid Man to wreck this family further with his sloshing innards and penchant for breaking through perfectly good accent walls. No matter how much we could really use a drink right now.
Oh no. Oh no.
“Ohhhhh yeahhhh!”
Rachel Keller is a New York City comedy writer, which she promises is very original. She peaked when she won 8th place at the National School Scrabble Tournament in the sixth grade. She’s done a few things since then that you can see here.
