Dr. Pepper, I'd Like A Second Opinion.

I can't be the only broke-ass who can't afford name brand pop.
Sorry, Mr. & Mrs Thurston Howell, but I can't afford your 'la-dee-fucking-dah' 50 cent can soda.
Sodas with commericial advertising, celebrity spokespeople, and ingredients which don't cause various forms of impotency.

Laaaa-deee-fucking-DAH, I boastfully repeat in your general direction.

Fuck you Pepsi, Coca Cola, and especially you Dr. Pepper.
YOU, Dr. Pepper...
You're the delicious drink in which I crave. Dr. Pepper has always been the right diagnosis for what's ailing me:
Thirst.
Prescription: Drink one of me, then bellow out a satisfied, inappropriate "Ahhhhhh", vocally communicating just how amazing you make me feel.

But recently, I calculated how much that costs me a week.
Vending machine at work = .60
Times 5 days a week.
(Let me find my useful Casio calculator for assistance in this complicated, mathmatical pickle)
Three dollars.
You know what else costs 3 dollars?
Cigarettes. A plethora of delcious Charleston Chews. A forty of Mickeys. A crappy handjob from a stubble cooched, yeast infected, housewife pill addict wearing nothing but orange-striped knee-high socks.

I refuse.
You heard me, doc.
I refuse to let your tantilizing, carbonated product consume my monies. I will not miss out on the finer things in life. This will be my last visit to your clinic. I'd like my records, please. I'm going to find a new doctor. A doctor who can fix me up, without the financial burden you've put upon me with your theoretical stethoscope of bankrupcy. So, I searched.
In the process, I discovered...That they pass around medical degrees in the soda industry like they pass around a joint at a Cypress Hill concert.

First, I went to Dr. Thunder.

His price was reasonable.
But, the love wasn't there.
When he grabbed my balls and asked me to turn my head and cough...I realized, "I just wanted something to drink."
Then, I realized Dr. Thunder was actually Uncle Dennis.
And that Uncle Dennis had really soft hands.

My search continued, as I made an appointment with:

Dr. Topper.

What the fuck is a topper, anyway?
This soda is a conundrum of overhwhelming confusion.
He wasn't so bad. He was gentle, yet quenching.
And his prices were reasonable.
Suddenly, Dr. Pepper was becoming a mere memory. Yesterdays news.
But, once again...It had carbonation. Had taste.
Lacked love.


Dr. Springtime:
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I found Dr. Springtime in a Piggly Wiggly.
At first, I assumed it was the name of a feminen hygiene product. Dr. Springtime sounds like a generic brand of douche only Tuesday afternoon strippers with happy trails can afford. On that note, Dr. Springtime also tasted like douche.
Does all soda come with a vinegar scent and a nozzle?
This left me gagging and angry that Dr. Springtime ever recieved his medical degree in soda.

Dr. Foots:

I hoped for the best. This doctor has the name of a grey kitten with cute, white colored paws. But, I was wrong. (Although, I do enjoy the fact that "Chill Before Serving" is on the can...Just incase inbred bumblefucks weren't sure how to drink a fancy sodee-pop.)
Tasted like I was licking the gravel from the blistered corns of a hobos foot.
I actually spit Dr. Foot on the ground, with an audible "BLEH!"
An old lady outside the market saw me do this, and gave me me a funny look. I gestured the can in her direction implying she could finish the rest.
She simply raised her hand as to say "No thanks, faggot.", and continued on her marry way to dying soon.
(Okay, that actually never happened, but it would have been completely awesome.)

Dr. Chill:
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Dr. Chill is my dawg.
The most ghetto generic pop, ever.
If Dr. Chill and Faygo got into a brawl, Dr. Chill would rip Faygo's arms from it's torso, then roundhouse kick Faygo's grandmother out of her wheelchair.
Dr. Chill was the sheeeeeeit!!!
He's all, "Sup honky?"
And I'm all, "Dayumn, Dr. Chill. I need a fix."
So, he's all "Chickety-check yo'self son!"
And he was delicious.
I had the sudden urge to go home and watch the Fresh Prince of Bel Air, and smoke a pack of Newports.


Doctor:
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Yes. I thought, perhaps his simplistic approach, may be due to a pompous arrogance of delicious product.
Incorrect.
Doctor tastes like flat Dr. Pepper.
Literally. Open a can of Dr. Pepper. Leave it rest for a couple days.
Then, taste.
It tastes like someone sodomized themselves with a prune, put it in a blender with some A1 steak sauce and the puss excreation from a whore's bread baking, yeast infection.
Doctor should find a new line of work.
Selling used cars, or cagefighting.
I'm not sure what it actually tastes like giving a rimjob to a dead piece of roadkill, along the highway. But it can't be any worse than drinking Doctor.

Dr. Bold:

Dr. Bold was a dickhead.
He tried to stick a speculum in me.
"I don't have a vaj-ay, Dr. Bold."
Then, he opened up his glove compartment, and showed me his medical degree.
Dr. Bold violated me with his bold carbonation and bitter aftertaste.
In Europe, bidets should flow wild with Dr. Bold.
That's about all it's good for.

Dr. Perfect:
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I was hoping Dr. Perfect was a tribute to former WWF Intercontinental Champion, Mr. Perfect. I was wrong. Whereas, Mr. Perfect would spit him gum out, and swat it in mid air.
Dr. Perfect tasted like a bed sore.
Mr. Perfect would play baseball and hit only homeruns. Mr. Perfect would play Scrabble and get a triple word score, EVERY TIME.
...Dr Perfect was like a parapeligic trying to run the gauntlet in American Gladiators.
I'm not even sure this was actual soda.
Perhaps the bag-boy at the grocery store urinated into a can, and I fell for it.
He also gave me a piece of candy that looked curiously like a knee-scab.

Dr. Right:
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Dr. Right? No.
Dr. Wrong, you penis wrinkle!
There was NOTHING right about you.
I HATE YOU SO MUCH, DR. RIGHT.
You bring false hope to us all, you doppleganger of disasterous porportions.
Someone bring me Dr. Right, so he can diagnose the after-effects of the left uppercut to the chin he'll soon have to endure.


Dr. Sparkle:
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If Christopher Lowell drank generic Dr. Pepper...It would be Dr. Sparkle. Or "Doctor Thparkle!!!" with a limp wrist, and hand on the hip. I felt gay even drinking this. Just looking at it made me want to be an olympic figure skater, and karaoke the Dawson's Creek theme song.
I tried it, and low and behold.
It was fruity. Literally. It was a horrible attempt at soda.
I hope whoever created Dr. Sparkle has long since died of GAIDS.

In conclusion:
After lots of research and blatent outrage.
The winner is Dr. Chill.
Dr. Topper was a close runner up.
I recommend them both, and the cost effiecient, tasty results which come from their consumption.

Dr. Pepper, you just lost a customer.
...And a friend.