Hawaiian Punch is A Tool of Satan

Oh, Hawaiian Punch. Your delicious Fruit Juicy Red sweetness beckons me to the fridge. I go back again...and again. My thirst is insatiable, eager, and willing and only you can quench my desire. Only you can fill me as I hold you, my fingers growing numb with chilled pleasure as I watch the condensation roll down you like sweat, dripping onto my freshly-purchased copy of Tiger Beat. I need you so badly, I'll forgive that you just ruined my full-size pullout poster of Ryan Cabrera. I hold you to my lips and feel the coolness of your touch dance upon my tongue and I know that we were meant to be. And because you're not marked for individual sale, I am blissfully unaware that with each passing pouch of paradise, I am ingesting 24 GRAMS OF SUGAR PER SIX OUNCE SERVING.

That's right, Mr. Punch. I just found the box you arrived in.

I put you down on the counter. Now that I know, I have to walk away.

The stain of your FD&C Red #26 on my tongue might fade over time, but my resentment for you will last forever.

You son of a bitch.

Maggie