Dear Captain Morgan's Gold

I can recall sitting in a suite in college, for once not using the television to play 007 Nightfire.  We were all sitting around watching something or other, when the glory of your commercial aired for the first time.  Your gruff and demanding announcer, with backup singers, announced the tired days of getting drunk off of beer, liquor and diluted varnish were over.  Captain Morgan's had ventured into the land of malt beverages.  Finally, someone had made a manly Zima. 

Your commercial had everything: women in short shorts, big blazing balls of fire, and a sly humor not known those days and not to be seen again until the Vault soda commercials, or Old Spice Guy.  After a vicious Battle Royale fight for shotgun, and a harrowing high speed car ride through Southern Maryland, we each had a shiny 24 pack to consume.  Certainly we could have just gotten one pack and shared, so that we could give you a try.  That's exactly the kind a thing that complete idiots would do when faced with a 24 pack of malt goodness for the mere price of $8.99.  They would settle for only a little bit.  My friend and I are not idiots, Herr Captain, so get that thought out of your mind.

The first few sips were not pleasant.  The gentle citrus aftertaste you promised was more like a frothy mechanical discharge from a syphilitic robot.  Sipping was clearly no longer an option.  We frantically drank our bottles with the panicked fear of college students that finally understand that they may not be invincible; that perhaps there are things of pure evil in this world, and that they might possibly be sloshing around in our stomachs like cheap liquid demon babies. 

My compatriots gave up after the third or fourth bottle, content on relegating the hateful remains of their cases to the trash, or simply waiting to drink the rest when they were already too drunk to feel the loathing for humanity that emanated from the wicked brew.  I, as always, was too smart to follow the crowd.  The way I saw it, after the sixth chugged bottle, my stomach and brain were quickly creating an antidote.  Already I could feel immunity to the poisons building in my system.  I championed on, determined to finish all 24 bottles and raise a resounding victory for Good and Justice.

The only things I remember about what came to pass after drinking that case was wrestling my friend Jesse on the grassy commons until we were both fairly hurt.  I then somehow got my hands on a Styrofoam airplane and started frolicking about, trying to make it fly.  That is all I remember.

I know this was not the night I accidentally urinated on a duck, and it was not the night I fell in the pond.  I know because people remembered me doing these things, and told me about them.  No one, however, remembers what happened the rest of that fateful day.  I can take an educated guess, though.

You roofied us, and stole our innocence that day, Captain Morgan.  Shame on me for expecting more from a company who uses a bloodthirsty rapemonster for a spokesman.