Running With Scissors

Seriously, Clamato is Gross

French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre had a few words to say about the meaning of life: don't bother searching for one. The universe doesn't care enough to give itself meaning, preferring a more absurd approach to existence. We can say that the universe is a bit like Florida in that regard.

Sartre also said that, thanks to this lack of inherent meaning to existence, humans will always live in anguish and despair. He said this in part thanks to his belief that, as the universe refuses to give our life meaning, we have a duty to make meaning for ourselves. Another popular theory is that he said all those angsty things because he was never invited to any kind of cool party. Sartre was kind of a bummer.

Humans, he once wrote, were condemned to be free, as without a superior force giving meaning to their lives, they were left to confront the reality that they had crafted. So no, Greg from accounting, you're not bitchy because Mercury is in retrograde, you're just a dick.

If we are responsible for our actions, and our actions craft the meaning of who we are in life, Sartre proposes that decisions, the catalyst for actions, are the one defining feature of human existence. The decisions a person makes in life becomes our essence.

As so, we can safely say that whoever willingly drinks Clamato juice is someone who had made terrible life choices, is most likely a horrible person, and is not to be trusted in any capacity.

For those lucky enough not to know the scourge of this "beverage," Clamato is a drink made from reconstituted tomato juice concentrate, sugar, several spices, clam broth, and MSG. It is known through the universe as the worst drink someone can willingly drink. Even worse than Surströmming juice, and even fouler that the acidic fart waters of the planet Campela 7.

It was invented at a bar in Baja California, thanks to a man named Rene Vazques Pesqueira, who, after a night of drinks, had the mother of all hangover drilling at his head and decided that combining clam broth and tomato juice was a perfect way to end his misery, thus creating Clamato juice.

Legend has it that, after just one sip, Rene became aware of the absurdity of his own existence, and swore not to drink alcohol again if the alternative was to drink his awful cocktail once again.

Even though it remains one of the foulest drinks in existence, it somehow retains solid sales profits, and only a few people know why.

You see, Clamato has a peculiar consistency, being sticky but perfectly liquid at the same time. It also contains some necessary proteins for sustaining Carbon-based life for a few days if necessary. It is a near perfect replacement for blood.

Hence, if one were to witness an ominous red liquid seeping from under the door of a certain suicide union headquarters, one would initially assume it was blood. Someone with more worldly wisdom would immediately know it was, in fact, a spilled bottle of Clamato juice. The why of that is less obvious.

The door opened with a creak, and a head peered from the darkness inside. It was a rather ugly head, one that made you not want to know what the body looked like.

"Yes?" the head said in a voice best described as one of utter defeat.

"Hello Margot," said James Truman-Conelly with cheer. "Can we come in?"

The crone looked at the pair from top to bottom, pausing to see Peter straight in the eyes.

What Peter saw inside those eyes terrified him to his very core. Countless horrors swirled in those dead irises. There was something else in her. Something sinister.

"James Truman-Conelly," she said with dreadful gravitas. "Please, enter. I'm sorry about the mess I made. My hands are not what they used to be."

It was an understatement, thought Peter, as she had hooks for hands.