I wonder sometimes if the amount of olive juice I throw out annually would make some Dirty Martini fan cry. As a fan of olives, I do like Dirty Martinis when I drink Martinis, but as a fan of whisky and rum first, I somewhat dislike Martinis relatively so I rarely drink them and almost never have the ingredients.
Smeap is the honk of a flamingo. Smeap was also at least once, a storybook land at the weird intersection of TV ads and the worlds they seem to inhabit. It was a place where wars were fought over sodas, and talking polar bears had very good reasons to guard soda machines. It was a place where rainbow color candies were harvested for electric power. It was a place where a prairie dog might move to big city inhabited mostly by Pink Flamingos to follow her dream to be private investigator, only to get slowly entangled in the seedy underbelly of crime and prohibited soda trading of the Neon Flamingos and their syndicate. Social media at times lately feels like it has become almost entirely seedy underbelly with very little upside. Maybe it needs more storybook worlds.