Imagine a blueberry pie shaped like a pair of brass knuckles.
I took one sip of this and my brain immediately took me to a place where I was tied to a chair in a dingy back room, being worked over by some mafia bruiser. Except the mafia guy looked exactly like Blackie Lawless. Which, it’s too bad he and I had to be on opposing sides like that, because there are just so many questions I’d always wanted to ask him if we ever met, you know? Blackie fucking Lawless.
Anyways. Blackie was working me over, absolutely tearing into me, one blueberry punch to the gut after another. Just relentless. Blood and sweat and blueberry juice everywhere. A merciless god of glam metal and mafia-dom.
It’s a heavy drink, and it took me to a dark and dangerous place. Blueberry is just trouble, anywhere. There aren’t a lot of blueberry juices and sodas, you’ll notice. It just doesn’t fucking translate, man. It’s too thick and muscular of a flavor. It’s the Scott Caan’s neck of all flora. Some smoothie places will try to sell you on the blueberry-strawberry combo, or blueberry-raspberry. Pay no heed to that nonsense. The blueberry just pounces on any other flavor in there with a nasty tolchok to the gulliver. All you get is blueberry cement forcing its way down your throat. You’re coming up for air after each sip.
There’s some language on the Blue Machine bottle that it’s been carefully formulated to cheer you up if you’re feeling “blue”. This was not the case for me, and I’ve had heck of depression lately. Work stuff, mostly. But these blueberries were just sucking the life force right out of me, and meanwhile I’m in for 30 large to King Diamond, like I need any additional stress.