Kor Shots’ “Black Magic”
Submitted by Renata Camara

After improv class (after all, this is Chicago), I shuffle my body into Whole Foods. Fellow urbanites within hearing distance of my hok hoks are instinctively making way for my recently uninsured body, by way of job loss.

Some of the wealthier patrons smear the white walls with their body-jams to increase their distance from me. I sometimes hear the rrriggaa rrigggaa rhythmical scratching of the latest season’s synthetic Canada Goose jackets as they rub against said walls, demonstrating their purchasing power and, perhaps, their love for the art of vinyl turntable scrubbing.

Momentarily looking at myself through the made-in-China mirror in the organic clothes isle, it is quite evident to me and everyone around me that my body had been holding back something short of a plague — until today. Unable to afford a visit to a medical doctor, I scan options for relief.

I communicate to a 20-something-looking employee who is withstanding my potential communicable disease by way of thirteen dollars an hour. It’s a gamble he has no choice but to take. He points me to a refrigerated section where there are so-called wellness shots. These words I hear as if they are coming from someone speaking underwater. “Wellness shots?” I repeat back to him, confused. Sounds both fun and dangerous — I’m game.

My eyes focus in on several tiny see-through bottles filled with liquids of varying colors. I hone in and settle on the shaman-like name appeal of “Black Magic” by Kor Shots as the cure. I swear it’s alluring dark ink is whispering, “drink me.” Still in the yes and mood from improv class, I take a shot. I will pay for it later.

If you’ve ever wanted your uvula to get punched in its uvula-face by incredibly aggressive pissed-off boxers named Ginger and Lemon, try Kor Shots’ “Black Magic.” Or, if like me, you find yourself unknowingly in need of something akin to a tonsillectomy, also try Kor Shots’ “Black Magic” as a cheap temporary alternative. There is no caffeine but the burst of energy that will rocket from your teeth to your nervous system at first exposure puts you in round two.

The Malibuans who created this elixir apparently believe that Mother Nature always intended to mix activated charcoal with coconut water. One sip and you too will agree it was just a matter of time until she did as nothing is more invigorating. Warning: when you do drink it, you are guaranteed to hear a faint murmur of a Talking Heads song as it is unearthed from deep within the memories of your youth — before you are knocked unconscious.

Someday you’ll find yourself lying on a Whole Foods aisle.

And you may tell yourself, “This is not my beautiful house.”

And you may ask yourself, “How did I get here?”

A new street drug? No, a riveting, natural, organic drink free of any artificial flavors and preservatives. But you won’t be able to tell your face that. It will have the same expression as a baby first tasting a lemon.

Fact: I came to.

Fact: I never passed out.

As a truth-seeker and vividly conscious being, I highly recommend this drink for those who want to go on a spiritual twenty-day journey whilst neither losing twenty days of their life nor ever going any further than a few blocks from their favorite Whole Foods. Drink it once and you’ll never be same as it ever was, same as it ever was.

Only twenty calories and TSA approved? Yes and please!

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Beanitos Baked White Bean Mac n’ Cheese Crunch
Submitted by Alison Satterlee

I don’t remember how you came into my life, but I’m guessing my wife probably brought you home because you sound like something she’d eat. Whereas I will make a dinner out of two bowls of Count Chocula, she will sauté asparagus and mushrooms with garlic, zest a lemon on top, and then “treat” herself to pineapple as dessert. One of us is in much better shape than the other.

So, chips made of beans are generally not the kind of thing that gets my motor cranking.


Beanitos Baked White Bean Mac n’ Cheese Crunch (BBWBMNCC), despite your clunky, disgusting name, you are so damn good.
Side note, I take umbrage with chips that are the flavor of something that’s at least partially a starch, like macaroni in the immediate instance. Biscuits and gravy flavored chips, garlic bread chips… dear Lays, chips are already a carbohydrate. Are you really adding the extra flavor of another carb to your chips? Kindly fuck off, no you are not. You made a garlic chip. That’s it. Pat yourselves on the fucking back.

I approached you, bag of turncoat Cheetos in my house, salty AF. But oh BBWBMNCC, I grovel at your metaphorical feet. I was wrong. I was so, so wrong.

You are so crunchy. You hold up to humidity. You hold up to being smashed in a road trip bag of snacks, your crunchiness persisting despite being wedged between coolers, suitcases, and errant feet. And I haven’t even begun to sing the praises of your cheesy tang. Remember being a kid and getting excited about the one Kraft macaroni noodle that somehow got all the cheese powder stuck to it in a succulent glob? How decadent and wrong that tasted? Every one of your beautiful cheese curls tastes like that one noodle. Every bag. Every time.

BBWBMNCC, you are the reason I owe my wife an apology. Or perhaps, you are the physical manifestation of our polar opposite eating habits, for at once you contain two grams of fiber per serving but you also contain straight-up buttermilk. I love you. Please don’t get discontinued. You’re the only item holding our warring pantry together.