Hitler, Bin Laden, Manson…that Gatorade Jug? Yeah. I’m trying to figure out where my big fat orange friend fits into this list of most hated, but that he does cannot really be in question because it seems that not a week goes by when some athlete doesn’t walk up to him and punch-kick-slap his portly, refreshing ass onto the ground.
What I want to know is what the Gatorade Jug ever did to these people that warrant the repeated beatings? It’s 2008! We’re not supposed to see color! There’s a damn good chance a black man is going to be elected President of the United States soon, the color of a person’s skin is becoming less and less relevant, but show a pissed off professional athlete a tubby little orange guy and he’s like a bull to a red cape.
It’s a sad, sad thing. With many potential targets, they always seem to go for the Gatorade drug. And yet the Jug shows up for work every day, filled the brim with cold and refreshing Gatorade. He sits quietly, eagerly waiting for his chance to quench the thirst of the athletes he serves. He does his job well too! Even after hours in the sun, he keeps the nourishing fluids inside of him cool and ready to hydrate.
None of this matters to the athletes though. One bad inning, one little fumble, one silly turnover, one bad call and the fate of the poor Gatorade Jug is sealed. He must die. He must die now. He must die hard.
At least in most sports, the athlete must punch-hit-tackle-slap the Jug himself, but in the heat of the summer moment during a baseball game, the absolute worst often comes to pass when baseball player decides that not only must the Jug die, but he must die painfully and repeatedly. To that end, this coward employs a weapon, in the form of a heavy wooden club against our chubby orange friend—the same friend that only innings before had probably refreshed him.
Gatorade Jug abuse is running rampant, but when do you ever see anyone doing anything about it? When do you ever see an athlete restraining one of his brethren from attacking? Never. They turn their heads, they pretend they cannot see. Only the spouse of an abusive police officer can possibly come close to knowing, to understanding what our poor little orange friend must go through and they, at least, don’t have to have their beatings shown nightly on SportsCenter to the amusement of millions!
Kermit the Frog once said that it wasn’t easy being green. Kermit was a pussy though. Being green, at times made him lonely, or outcast or looked at funny, but he never got the business end of a baseball bat repeatedly clobbered into him for committing the high crime of trying to replace electrolytes in thirsty athletes did he? I think not.
When will it all end? Who will step up to the plate, so to speak, and take initiative to stop the abuse of the Gatorade Jugs? If you think the joy they experience when being dumped over the head of a coach who’s won a championship makes up for the torment and torture they suffer throughout the entire season, you’re wrong.
If you won’t do something for the Gatorade Jug itself, then I hope the next time you’re watching a highlight of some athlete hammering away at that defenseless blob of orange that you’ll remember that the Jug is not alone in that dugout, or on that sideline. Somewhere, usually in packs of six, weeping for their parent, the little green personal Gatorade water bottles watch in horror as over and over again, their mother, their father is mercilessly and savagely beaten.
And they grow up knowing that when they grow up and change color, those beatings will be their own. What a sad life. How sad it is that we allow it to happen. For shame!