If the good folks at Random Reviewer really do intend to evaluate everything eventually, I’m hoping they’ll appreciate a few thoughts on a rather expansive topic:  the future of all humankind.  Our big super-ape brains may make us wonder what will ultimately play out, evolutionally speaking. 

We’re all taught (outside of Kansas, at least) that evolution is a very real but gradual process involving mutations and their suitability for survival.  My wife tried explaining the piecemeal nature of this to our daughter when she was a pre-schooler.  “It takes a long, long time – like a million years – for a monkey to turn into a man.”  Our girl was excited by the prospect that it might soon be the millionth year for some monkey so she could see that happen to him.  I guess it hadn’t occurred to her that the changes would manifest themselves in small increments one generation at a time.  Or maybe she was just extrapolating Stephen Jay Gould’s arguments, thinking there’d be one big punctuated burst of transmutation.  The truth of the matter is, with so many chemicals, viruses, genetic manipulations, and technological innovations now upon us, the impetus for change has never been greater (except maybe when a giant meteor is headed our way).  So a quasi-scientific analysis may be timely.  With that in mind the following is a list of possible directions these mutations could take us and an assessment of their odds in Darwin’s Natural Selection Sweepstakes.

Sensory Upgrades

It’s certainly plausible that the future will confer advantages to those with either heightened acuity in the existing senses or entirely new tools for gauging the physical world.  For instance, what if some variant of the human species could detect pheromones in the opposite sex?  They’d be quicker to pick up on coupling clues while poor Joe “No Pheromo” Schmo’s swimmers would be shut out of the gene pool.  Or maybe some subset of Californians will be sensitive to the subtle warnings given by fault lines just before an earthquake.  They’d be the ones to high-tail it out of there before large chunks of populated earth fall into the ocean, and thus live on to perpetuate their ilk.  That is, unless they’re too preoccupied making big budget disaster films.

[Vegas line:  4-to-1]

Societal Beneficence and Altruism

Many scientists believe that behavioral traits such as niceness are baked in to our genes.  Some expect more of the same going forward.  They reason that those who are helpful and caring are more attractive to mates and less likely to incite the hot-heads of the world.  A more dystopian view maintains that nice guys finish last.  “Scum of the Earth Cads and the Women Who Love Them” is a popular theme, after all.  Consider, too, how future saints could be lulled into thinking that goodness had prevailed and prove themselves incapable of sniffing out dirt-bags.  The world could be overrun by goose steppers.  I wonder:  if the forces of evil write the next chapters of history, will they say they were the ones wearing the white hats?  Has this ever happened before?  Is it all relative?  Discuss.

[Odds:  8-to-1 on Good, 9-to-1 on Evil – a slight edge for virtue, but the more likely scenario being a balance of power between them.]

Enhanced Prevarication Awareness

A more sensitive needle on the internal bullshitometer could mean any number of evolutionary advantages.  Important aspects in life such as picking mates, choosing leaders, winning poker, and avoiding scam artists would be impacted favorably.  Perhaps they’d pick up on a slight dilation in the pupil or a faint tremor in the voice, but this sensitized bunch would read people like an owner can read a naughty dog.

[Odds: 5-to-1.  The outlook for this offshoot would be better, but recent experience with BALCO, Barry Bonds, and the like suggests that cheaters usually stay a step ahead of the detectors.]

Hypertrophic Attractors

What I’m talking about here is super-sized sexy bits.  You’ve no doubt heard that size doesn’t matter.  But what if people do indeed vote with their bedsheets and choose more well-endowed partners, causing a sort of au naturel selection?  A professor of mine enjoyed telling us it’s less about survival of the fittest and more about survival of the sexiest.  While his theory makes sense, I could see how this particular version of it could fail.  What if these organs get in the way of other everyday functions like sitting in an airline seat or standing without tipping over?  Also, might these mega-endowed mutants cease procreating for fear of jeopardizing their adult film careers?  Remember, success in evolution requires some actual baby-making.

[Odds: 7-to-1]

Digital Dexterity and Celerity

If WWIII is fought with what is essentially video game weaponry, we’ll soon see two groups – the quick clickers and the dead.  The long-term viability of this demographic is far from assured, though.  They may lack the diversified skill set to survive.  Who, for instance, would keep them supplied with Biggie Cokes?

[Odds: 15-to-1]

Rapidly Accelerating Changes in Lower Primates

Researchers have noted some remarkable achievements in ape-to-ape language and education recently.  It might make us wonder if monkeys could ever catch up to us.  The genetic overlap between humans, chimps, and orangutans is already well over 90%.  A few more tweaks here and there, maybe a little cross-breeding with Homo sapiens, some radiation, and who knows – maybe we’d have some serious competition.  I’m imagining the Geico cavemen (who are evidently getting their own show now).  Then again maybe the better cultural reference would be those cautionary tales about hierarchical social orders where the underclass rises up against “The Man”, in this case, man.

[Odds: 12-to-1 – though it would be funny to hear their jokes about hairless backs.]

Augmented Gray Matter

Braininess is supposed to be one of the top 3 traits a woman looks for in a man.  It might even crack the top ten on many a man’s list.  The ability of this gifted set to attract mates, clean up in Jeopardy, and vanquish a rival in a battle of the wits would, all else being equal, provide huge selection potential.  But would all else really be equal?  Might these big lobes, in the extreme, correlate with nerdiness (anathema to reproduction)?  Plus, imagine the hips on the mothers who might need 10 inches of dilation rather than 10 centimeters to push out their cranially outsized offspring.

[Odds:  6-to-1 – of course this may play out in varying degrees – we wouldn’t necessarily see a world full of Einsteins, maybe just one with fewer Bushes.]

Technological Enhancements

Man merged with machine – it’s not just the stuff of sci-fi anymore.  A wide array of cyborgs will undoubtedly exist in the future.  Whether this is considered a part of the evolutionary process or not depends on the ability of the imbedded technology to self-replicate.  Recent strides in nano research suggest that this is possible.  If silicon can improve the brain circuitry and nanotechnology can be grafted into stem cells, there’s a helluva lot we humans could do better.  Of course the costs could make the six-million-dollar man look like a blue-light special.  There are other risks to the success of such an entity, too.  If a guy has the whole internet planted in his head, would he soon be surfing himself all day long?  Would employers look to overload the lightening fast workers with extra projects?  How many TPS reports would Lumbergh expect over the weekend?

[Odds:  5-to-1]

Some of you may be questioning this whole exercise.  You may imagine we’ve done enough evolving.  Then again, chances are the pre-human ape-men believed the same thing.  (Ironically enough, many of them thought that they were the pinnacle of God’s grand design and that evolution was just a bunch of hooey.)  That was back in the days when the sine qua non of the whole thing seemed to be walking upright.  In retrospect, given all the people there are with bad backs, I’m not so sure that’s right.  Odds of anything I’ve said being right:  66-to-1.

Robert, do you remember -- back before these mild daddy days of your middle age; back even before the wild shindig days of your young adulthood; back, back in the mild Sunday School and Seminary days of your youth -- an allegorical movie, probably from the same era and studio and cinematographer as "Cipher in the Snow," about a switchman who lives in a shack at one end of a railroad bridge, and whose only job is to make sure the bridge, open all day for ships to pass though, but closed so that the train can pass safely across it, just twice a day, at the appointed times?  This man, as you will recall, has a son.  Or rather, a Son (since this is an allegorical movie about God's loving sacrifice of His Only Begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him, &c.).  The Son's name, I recall, was Nate: clearly in reference to the Nativity of the One Who died to save us all.  I believe they also had a shaggy dog, but that is very much beside the point, because on this one fateful day, the day depicted in the film, a beautiful autumnal afternoon of a day -- late in October, I believe, just after the 20th or so -- the dog was asleep in the shack, as is the wont of shaggy dogs in warm places on late autumn afternoons.  But not so little Nate, no: Nate was out playing on the railroad bridge.  Now you might say that Nate's dad the switchman was none too bright or cautious, allowing his beloved only-begotten Boy to play out on the railroad tracks.  But since the train wasn't expected for at least another hour or so, he thought it was probably okay, and anyway, nothing bad had ever happened on that bridge before, and boys (and especially Boys) will be boys.  Today, though, was destined to be different: perhaps the switchman thought that daylight savings time had  ended on this October weekend, and that he had an extra hour: he had "fallen back," having "sprung forward" (he always chuckled a little at this: he loved puns) a few months earlier, back in April.  (In April?  Yes, the very same month as the Nativity of his little Nate, O! cruel irony!)  Long story short... no: in tragic fact, daylight savings time was not to end until the following weekend.  Without warning, the train appeared in the distance, rousing the switchman from his punny reveries an entire hour earlier than he had expected it.  A brief flash of terror shot through the switchman's veins, but then his cool head prevailed: he thought he could make it, he thought there was enough time, surely there would be enough time: he pulled on the lever to begin moving the bridge into place for the passenger train to carry its passengers, its hundreds of people (O! the humanity!) safely across the river, and then -- he really thought he'd have enough time, as the bridge was moving into place -- then to rush out to whisk Nate from the far end of the bridge, off of the tracks, and out of the path of the oncoming train.  The switchman pulled the lever to its locking position, and the heavy trestle moaned into its slow motion: from years of experience, the switchman now knew that he had come to his senses just in time: the bridge would just manage to arrive at its place, its tracks would just manage to line up with their solid-ground brethren at both ends, in just the time it would take for the train to steam its way from the bend where he had first noticed its approach to the foot of the bridge.  The switchman felt the lever click into place, then let go the lever and rushed out the door of his shack toward Nate.  But then -- then something snapped.  The lever was not holding in its locked position as it should have held, as it must hold: no, it slipped back to its default forward position, and the bridge ceased its slow groaning motion, the tracks still well shy of their appointed places.  And Nate: Nate still had neither heard the train's approach nor felt the motion of the bridge on which he was playing.  Now you might say that Nate himself, like his switchman daddy, was none too bright or cautious, playing there on that railroad bridge; that he should have been paying closer attention to the sounds of warning that surrounded him, and to the sense of motion beneath him; that he should have learned better all those warning signs from all those railroad safety coloring books that his dad got for free from the railroad (one of the few tangible benefits from his otherwise quite modestly-paying job as switchman), that had been, over the years, with increasing degrees of coloring within the lines, pasted up all over the walls of the otherwise decorationless shack; that he should have remembered the railroad safety poems and sayings and proverbs that we all learn in childhood: "Be careful around trains!" and "Tracks are for trains only!" and the like.  But sadly, tragically, even long before this fateful day when Nate would become a symbol of God's loving sacrifice for our sins, long before this, Nate had become a victim: a victim of his father's love of puns and witticisms, and of the outside world's callous indifference to the beauties of language and wit.  Somebody, somewhere should have realized that not only do the classic childhood proverbs of railroad safety, "Be careful around trains!" and "Tracks are for trains only!" and the like, not even rhyme -- they don't even alliterate.  And they're neither humorous nor memorable.  No, the only thing Nate could remember was his father's favorite railroad rhyme ("Railroad crossing without any cars.  How do you spell it without any R's?").  Yes, this rhyme he remembered well, just as he remembered the inevitable chuckle he would get as a reward for recognizing the meta-qualities of the riddle in his answer: How do you spell it?  I-T, of course, ho-ho!  Alas, on this day, as Nate, at the other end of the bridge, heard his father's cry of fear from the far-off shack, looked up, he thought only of puns and riddles, and of how he could always get a laugh for just spelling the simplest word of all, "it."  And his father?  His father realized, as you who have seen and remember this moving allegorical film already realize, and as no doubt all readers of this little allegorical anecdote have already realized, that he must make a tragic choice: he must either abandon the malfunctioning lever and the still-unalligned bridge to rescue his Son, thus dispatching a trainload of unknown and unknowing passangers to their death in a fiery crash into the river -- or he must remain in his shack, holding the lever back with all his strength until the gap in the tracks is closed, and continue holding it as the entire train passes safely across -- but of course the train's safety, nay, its salvation can come only at the cost of the life of his beloved Son.  He must abandon one or the other, the lever or the boy: the choice is a simple one, but of course it is not easy.  As a single tear rolls down the switchman's cheek (he is 1/16 Cherokee, by the way), the inevitable decision becomes clear in the very depths of his lowest-form-of-humor-steeped soul, which it is that he must abandon: better Nate than lever.

We here at the Random Reviewer are under no illusions about our place in the grand scheme of things. If even the planet Pluto is in danger of being dropped from the list of actual planets orbiting the sun, well, considering the fickle nature of the reading public in general, and our readers in particular (in short, you), and not to mention (which is just a terribly tricky phrase, isn’t it—not to mention—well, now I’ve gone and mentioned it, haven’t I?) the wildly variable quality in our reviews, depending on who’s writing, and what their mood was that day, well . . . in light of all that, we know our place. 

And that place is far below the place of the mighty ze frank. Have you seen the show? I feel so small, like Wayne, when Madonna showed up on SNL. We are truly not worthy. 

Okay, now I’m waay over the top. Who could possibly live up to this hype? Well, I’ll tell you (he’s going to tell, he’s going to tell): Ze Frank can. 

Ze has been around for a long time. A former guitarist and singer for Dowdy Smack, one day Ze created an online invitation to a birthday party, called “How To Dance Properly.” Within days, he was getting over a million visitors a day to his website. And the rest is history.

Ze has lots of good stuff on his site. First, check out How to Dance Properly. It’s a little dated, but is what cameras and the Internet were invented for. Forget commerce, forget email, forget porn. How to Dance Properly is what the boys at CERN had in mind. And no, I have not been drinking.

Okay, now that you know who Ze is, the next thing you need to do is visit every afternoon, and click on The Show. What you get is a closeup of Ze, as he rants (you see why we like it?) about anything and everything, from evangelicals, to brain crack, to the fabled Earth Sandwich. Ze never (ever ever ever) blinks, or breathes. I don’t think he’d be a good cyclist. After you watch one of his Shows, click one of the “popular” shows in the left nav. Rinse. Repeat. I haven’t seen a bad one.

Also, Ze likes lowercase letters. I think I love him.

What else does Ze do? He plays chess with his readers/viewers (called Sports Racers—I wish we had a cool name for you guys. Any ideas? Both of you?), he makes cool videos. He makes cool games.

Also, Ze links periodically to articles about currently cool topics. I like that. I can’t help it, I’m a sucker for good articles.

What don’t I like about Ze? I’m glad you asked. I hate the layout of his website. I have to scroll sideways. I have a two monitor setup, use very high screen resolution, and I HAVE TO SCROLL SIDEWAYS. Who does this? I’ve written him asking him to change it, but no response so far. The nerve. We would change our layout if YOU asked US. Well, okay, I made that up, we wouldn’t, we don’t care about you. But still. His layout, frankly, sucks. But the content, which, as we all know, is king, outweighs the layout. I find myself willing, even eager to dig through his crappy layout to find the gems, the treasures that await me.

The Bottom Line

In short, Ze is my new favorite thing. I give him a hug for a score. Just to show you how much I love Ze. Cuz I know you know I’m not the hugging type. This is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

--dug

Teams That Impressed

Teams That Disappointed

Overall Satisfaction

Rules That Need to Change

Only in Utah, or 1956 (the TV 1956, not the intolerant, segregated, drunken housewife 1956 that people actually lived through) would someone ask, "Do you want to go have a drink?" and mean soda.  When the rest of the world thinks about having a drink, they are thinking about alcohol.

When I think about it, I am thinking about whisky.  Specifically bourbon whisky, or to be gratuitously explicit: single barrel bourbon whisky.

The first time I drank whisky, I was twelve (I am not from the South). It was a dare, and it was a shot of Wild Turkey.  It burned; burned itself into my esophagus, stomach, and memory.  I didn't know up to that point, that my stomach had a bouncer.  It did, and the Wild Turkey's shenanigans made him angry.  It was horrible.  I didn't drink for a decade.

As a direct result, I was always wary of whisky, even after I slowly started suckling at alcohols fermented teat again.  Eventually, though, I climbed my way up to the top shelf, overcame my prejudices, and there I found the single barrel bourbon waiting for me.

Good bourbon whisky is aged for at least 8 years.  It sits reverently in oak barrels, improving itself, focusing its Chi, harnessing the flavors and sugars lying dormant in the oak.  When it is finally bottled, it has mellowed, matured, come into its prime, reached a Zen-like state of enlightenment, and left behind its wild moonshine youth.

Single barrel whisky is the best damn whisky you can find, anywhere.  It is the best of this "good" whisky.  When a batch of bourbon is ready, the master distiller tastes each barrel, selecting the best, and culling them from the herd.  These are then bottled separately.  None of the barrels are mixed.  This is where the obvious name comes from; the whisky in each bottle comes from one, and only one barrel.  The best of the best, sir!

Each bottle is labeled with identifying information.  Generally this will be hyper-critical information like the barrel number, rack number, warehouse number, etc.  This information is essentially useless.  I have never been into their warehouses.  I cannot recall the specific rack or barrel they are referring to on this label.  "You know, Bob, 107B usually has more woody finish. Did it get switched with 37C?  Because this tastes like it came from the F warehouse."  It is purely aesthetic, but it smacks of pride, and a little pretension, so I like it.  I like to look at the bottle and think about how this might differ from a different barrel, with a different number, on a different rack, in a different warehouse.  But then again, I am probably drunk on whisky at that point.

In my liquor cabinet, I have many bottles of quality whisky: Irish, Canadian, Tennessee, Scotch, and Bourbon.  I was going to review them. Pit them against one another like cocks in a thunderdome-esque battle to the death.  That would be silly.  I love all my delicious whiskeys. Each has their unique gifts, and I wouldn't want to discount one just to elevate another.  That wouldn't be fair, it wouldn't be right (though Bookers would probably win, I love you Bookers.)

Instead I have decided to write a biased, arbitrary, and clearly lopsided review.  One in which other liquids attempt to topple bourbon, and fail to do so in any meaningful way.

Single Barrel Bourbon vs. Diet Coke

A cruel comparison.  Diet Coke is sugar water with unpronounceable chemical additives.  It is marketed by pop stars like B. Spears, and appeals mainly to teenage girls who don't want to put on the extra ounces regular coke might add, because that might make them look less like Paris Hilton. It is, however, cheap, readily available, and you can drink it while operating heavy machinery.

Single barrel bourbon wins easily here, with a full 3.1415 out of 3.15

Diet Coke gets a -3 (mostly for its ability to create a 12 foot geyser using Mentos)

Single Barrel Bourbon vs. Bourbon

A tougher matchup.  Brother vs. Brother.  In a way, no one wins here. But in a more real way, single barrel bourbon takes cheap bourbon's lunch money.  Cheap bourbon is aged for 2-4 years and can be used to take the paint off of household items.  It is like the younger brother who could have been a contender.  If he just had the right barrel, the right rack, enough time to come into his own, etc.  He is another tragic tale of wasted youth.  Still, he is cheap, and his standards are low.  Drunk chicks are no problem.

Single barrel bourbon wins here with another 3.1415 out of 3.15

Cheap bourbon gets a -1 (because drunk chicks need loving too)

Single Barrel Bourbon vs. Steroids

The Juice.  Steroids can help give you increased strength, a movie career, and get you the governorship of California.  They also lead to roid rage, man breasts, small testicles, and organ failure.  Plus, you have to inject them, so they aren't really “refreshing.”  Steroids fail pretty miserably here.  They are expensive with plenty of long lasting side effects.  Bourbon's long lasting side effect is a smile.

Single barrel bourbon wins again with 3.1415 out of 3.15

Steroids get a -5 (even though man breasts can be funny, shrinking genitalia are not)

Single Barrel Bourbon vs. Crude Oil

As a nation we definitely prefer crude oil.  It lubricates the gears of industry.  It drives the engines of progress.  It provides us with transportation, and fuels wonderful things like the 1967 Camaro.  It propels the trucks that bring single barrel bourbon from Kentucky to me. It even pollutes the air with greenhouse gases (which the Global Climate Coalition tells me is a good thing).

Unfortunately, it costs more and more each day, and it will probably eventually kill us all either through climate change or international conflict and turmoil.  Though beautiful to behold, she is a vengeful goddess that shall have no other besides she.  It also tastes terrible—ever see Three Kings? It looked unpleasant, even I imagine, over ice.

Single barrel bourbon wins by not bringing about Armageddon with 3.1415 out of 3.15

Crude oil gets a 1 (because we can't really get bourbon without it yet)

Single Barrel Bourbon vs. Water

The toughest challenger yet.  It sustains all life on this planet. Without it neither human life nor delicious bourbon would exist.  It nurtures the plants from which bourbon is created.  It is clean, pure, refreshing, and cheap with no ill side effects.  It tastes great (quit messing with it Coke/Pepsi), and has no calories.  It doesn't cause cancer.  It provides coolant for the said 1967 Camaro.  It even sounds soothing when falling from the sky.  Plus, it comes in two flavors naturally, salt and salt free.  Everyone needs it, and I would rather drink it than any other bourbon substitute.  It falls just short of full marks because of tsunamis and flash floods.  For these reasons, (you know, life on Earth thing), it ties with single barrel bourbon.  Water may be the source of life, but single barrel bourbon is one of the things that makes that life worth living

Single barrel bourbon gets a 3.1415 out of 3.15

Water is the highest scoring challenger, also with a 3.1415 out of 3.15

Single barrel bourbon is clearly the most under-appreciated liquid on the planet.  I suggest you drink more.  I intend to.

- Kirk

I have tried to kick the Diet Coke habit a few times. Because I spend roughly the GDP of Switzerland on Diet Coke every year. The time I went the longest, maybe a month, I was testing out the theory that Diet Coke (and carbonation in general) reduces aerobic capacity. I had a big long distance mountain bike race coming up, and wanted every edge I could get.

Unfortunately, when I’m off the juice, I get a bit PMSy. Not on my period, which I’ve been instructed is not actually a problem (except for the mess), but PMSy, which I guess is more of a problem on account of it makes me act like a rabid ape. Which isn’t what I’m going for.

Anyway. The point is, I love the juice. But since the juice was launched in 1982, our friends at the Coca Cola Company have introduced some variations. In ’83 they introduced the Caffeine Free version, and also the international version of Diet Coke known as Coca-Cola Light. In ’86 we got Diet Cherry Coke. We waited until 2001 for the next iteration, Diet Coke with Lemon. More on this below. In 2002 we got Diet Vanilla Coke, added Lime in 2004, Splenda in 2005, and finally, Black Cherry Vanilla in 2006.

So, to begin, let’s just give Diet Coke in general, regardless of pitfalls or missteps, a solid 10.9 out of 11. The Silver Bullet (what, there’s another Silver Bullet? I don’t care, DC is my Silver Bullet) is that good, and you shouldn’t have to read all the way to the bottom to get to the score. So Brad, you can stop reading now.

However, we really need to take them one at a time. Let’s begin.

Diet Coke

The standard, the big fella, the drink by which we measure other drinks.

I never drank from the teat of the Big Silver Can growing up, and by the time I went to college, I was a heavy Mountain Dew drinker. But when I met Kim, we found it a hassle to get multiple drinks (we’ve since found new ways to hassle ourselves with mixes and additives, and if you’re a true connoisseur, you know what I’m taking about), so I just made the switch. And I never looked back. Except for the 18 times I tried to quit. Then I looked back longingly. Cuz, Diet Coke, and this is important, Diet Coke is better than almost anything in the whole world. Someday I’ll come up with a list. But not this day.

Caffeine Free Diet Coke

Introduced a year after the original, I’ve never really wrapped my arms around this product. I live in Utah, and went to school at BYU, so yes, I’ve been exposed to it plenty. But mostly I’m just plain indifferent to it. Kim drinks it so she can sleep at night. Me, I get up in the night and drink the regular stuff and go back to bed. I guess the gold can is good for the kids. You know, “sure, have some Diet Coke, but only the de-caff, so nobody calls Family Services.”

Coca-Cola Light

I had no idea this even existed until about 8 years ago, when we took our first ski trip to Italy. On the plane, when we asked for Diet Coke, they would bring us this stuff that sure looked like Diet Coke, but tasted more like regular Coke. Sure, it’ll do in a pinch, but it better be quite a pinch. Like traveling or living in Europe kind of pinch.

Diet Cherry Coke

Launched in 1986. I dunno, I have really nothing to say about this. Never drank it, not interested, whatever. Although, it’s part of the Diet Coke family. If I were at someone’s house, playing cards or something, and this is what they had, I’d certainly drink it. I mean, if they offer the Diet Pepsi, I’ll take water. If they offer Diet Cherry Coke, I’m drinking it.

Diet Coke with Lemon

Seriously? It took them 15 years to come up with this piss? 15 YEARS?! Tell you what, if I’m feeling particularly dusty in my digestive track, and could use a good cleaning, I’ll ask for this Lemon Pledge knock-off. Until then, I’ll just stick with actual Lemon Pledge. Eww. In fact, the Diet Coke with Lemon gets an honorary 1 out of 100. Yes, it’s that bad. It’s like Rocky VI; did we need this? Did we deserve this? Can I get an Amen from the congregation? I’m getting angry just thinking about it.

Diet Vanilla Coke

Answering a long-standing dream of mine, my friends in Atlanta came out with Diet Vanilla Coke in 2002. Unfortunately, it sucks. I’ve been adding a squirt of vanilla to my Diet Coke fountain drinks since convenience stores started offering the flavor shots. Pure heaven. This over-sweet, underwhelming attempt to capture that flavor is an abject flop. I would rather drink diet pepsi with vanilla. Which doesn’t suck, actually, but is a little like sleeping with the enemy.

Diet Coke with Lime

I don’t know what happened between 2002 and 2004 at the Coca Cola think tank, but apparently the right person died, because there’s no way the same dipweed who came up with the crap that is Diet Coke with Lemon and the mess that is Diet Vanilla Coke also invented the sublime flavor bouquet that is Diet Coke with Lime. The only combo that gets me more excited than Diet Coke with Lime, is a 44oz fountain drink, straight up Diet Coke, with a squirt of Vanilla. Somebody in Georgia deserves a promotion. And a big hug. And a night with an expensive hooker. I could go on. I’m just really, really grateful.

Diet Coke sweetened with SPLENDA Brand Sweetener

I’m just going to have to pretend that this travesty never even happened, much like Michael Jordan never played for the Washington Wizards. Never happened. How, HOW can the same company that came up with the immortal phrase “Just For The Taste Of It!” now come up with the apparently patented-as-a-group-of-words phrase “Diet Coke Sweetened with SPLENDA (the word so happy you have to use all caps to spell it) Brand Sweetener?” Do you not get it, Coca Cola Company? Seriously? Here, let me remind you: I drink Diet Coke JUST FOR THE TASTE OF IT! Don’t make it taste like regular coke. If I wanted regular coke, I would buy regular coke. But I don’t. Don’t make me come down there.

Diet Black Cherry Vanilla Coke

Whew, they put the guy who came up with Diet Coke with Lime back in charge. This complicated confection is the bomb. I don’t think I could drink it all the time, but when I’m having folks over for a good ole Utah time, involving backyard volleyball, board games, and maybe a little innocent flirting, from now on, I’m buying two twelve packs, one Diet Coke with Lime, one Diet Black Cherry Vanilla coke. That’s right, less than a year on the market, and already in the starting rotation. Congratulations.

Bottom Line

I haven’t delved into the whole fountain drinks vs bottled or cans debate, or whether you should drink from the can, or pour it into a glass with ice, and I don’t really intend to. That would be picking at nits. Because the bottom line is, Diet Coke is good. So good it should have its own star on Hollywood Boulevard. So good, they should name a planet after it. In fact, Diet Coke is so good, it doesn’t suck. Which is really the best thing you can say about pretty much anything. Almost. A solid 10.9 out of 11 for Diet Coke. In fact, forget that, I’m making an executive decision here: Diet Coke gets 12 out of 11. Just for the taste of it.

- dug