Don't you dare take my LaCroix away from me, science

You can pry LaCroix from our cold dead hands.

You can pry LaCroix from our cold dead hands.


Yeah, hi.

I got one question: Who hurt you?

Pal, you've got a lot of nerve. You with your measurements and your metrics and your double-blind blah blah blah. So help me God if you so much as look at the glint of condensation on my LaCroix can, you will feel a fiery wrath ten times as devastating as the plagues of climate change

Don't side-eye me.

Don't you dare. Not after you told everyone that my favorite drink will make me blimp up like a raccoon on steroids. 

Were we enjoying ourselves a bit too much for your liking? We seemed a little too happy to satisfy your mathematical proof on the limit of human joy? Did you shrink your lab coat in the wash and now it's too tight?

You couldn't help but go snooping into the one "vice" we could defend to our families. You took the delicate tickle of its fizz and made it a Trojan Horse of hormone-manipulating carbon dioxide. You said, "rats consuming gaseous beverages over a period of around 1 year gain weight at a faster rate than controls on regular degassed carbonated beverage or tap water." You served tiny cans of our most precious thirst-quencher to a bunch of rats.

Then you went and replicated the whole fiasco in humans. 

Seriously? Degassed carbonated beverage? Listen to yourself. You'd have us crack open a cold can of seltzer and watch as it slowly loses its lifeforce before drinking its pathetic remains.

I lied, I got one more question for you: Are you out of your mind?

You think you're helping. I get that. Just try drinking it in moderation, you say.

I got three Costco-sized palettes in my basement that say you don't know what the hell you're talking about. Wanna beef? You can take it up with my friends—*makes fists*—Pamplemousse and Peach-Pear.