Dear the Red Bull,
I have been a long time user of your drink and I’d like to start by letting you know I admire it greatly. I find the aggressively powerful energy in Red Bull helpful when I’m working on something tedious for a long stretch of time. I also enjoy your sideline in conceptual sports. How you manage to rally together reckless people with dubious personal safety and get them to do dangerous things is frankly awe-inspiring.
I’ve written this letter in regards to both your psychotic sport franchises as well as your psychotically strong energy drink. I also have a business proposal that you may find tempting. But before I go into my proposition, allow me some exposition.
As I said in my introductory paragraph, I find your drink useful when I’m slowly droning away at a repetitive, dull, boring as sin task.
I’m a toll booth attendant.
As such Red Bull has become my life essence. I’ve worked at the booths my entire adult life and although I love my job, it can be a toll (sorry, punintentional) on your energy and moral at times.
Recently though, my job’s got a lot worse. There’s some guy about my age who’s been working at the tolls for as long as I have. We’ve never been formally introduced as he used to work a different shift from me. However, he’s recently been promoted and shares the 08:00 – 16:00 work pattern with yours truly.
My boss, Mr. Odersky loves him because he’ll work any extra hours/days/weekends/weeks that are on offer. I swear he once worked a solid month, and I mean solid as in 24 hours a day without a pause.
He’s a happy, smiley, friendly toll attendant that the customers seem to like. He’s won several company awards because of this, including ‘The Best Toll Booth Attendant in the 08:00-16:00 slot.
I hate him, that’s MY award; those are MY patrons and MY completely unwanted unrequited love from the boss. I was so incensed by this smugly nice upstart stealing my thunder I started to work as many shifts I could get hold of, plowing through triple stints, working nights and weekends, anything to try and get back in front of this intruder.
I’m not as young and sprightly as I used to be (I’m now 26 1/36) and I needed some chemical assistance to keep me perky and active. My Red Bull addiction grew stronger, to the point that over 50% of my wages went towards buying crates of the stuff just to keep me going.
Apart from the odd auditory hallucination, as well as a frightening resurgence of my childhood acne, I began pulling into the lead from the interloper who had obliviously ruined my life.
Then, one day something odd happened to me. I don’t know if it was due to the lack of blood in my Red Bull stream, or perhaps a food additive I had recently been advised to stop using, but something out of the ordinary occurred.
I was cycling back home after a two week rota, glad to finally crawl into my bed and scrape the layer of dirt and engine smoke off my skin. I was only a few minutes away now, coming down Imaginary Lane, which is something of a rat run where I live. As such the council had gone a bit, well, overboard with the speed bumps. Making them two foot high and spaced every ten feet is a little extreme for all but the hardiest cars, but I was on a bike.
With a ‘Wahooooo’ I peddled with all my might and launched off the speed bump, sailing through the air in a single beautiful moment of weightlessness. I landed perfectly and prepared myself for the next bump.
“Wahoooooaaaaaiiiiiieeeeee” I cried as I flew upwards, and kept doing so. My body reached for the heavens whereas my precious bike had other ideas. I watched forlornly as my long time metal friend thundered fifty feet to the ground, taking out a Peugeot 106 as it landed. I couldn’t mourn for long; gravity had finally remembered about me.
With a THWUMP I landed in a pile amid the bent steel and plastic that remained of the cars roof. Miraculously my bike was unharmed, laying where the drivers seat had been just ten seconds before.
Hurriedly I scrabbled off the car, hopped back on the bike, and sped off down the pavement, whistling loudly yet nonchalantly as I went.
I slammed my front door and rested against it, breathing a sigh of relief at being home and not squashed to a pulp on the pavement. Maybe it was the concussion, or maybe it was the two weeks without sleep but at the time I didn’t fully appreciate that I had just recreated a pivotal scene from ET. That was until I got out of the shower anyway.
I was appraising myself in the mirror, muttering over the scratches and contusions I had suffered when I turned to inspect my back and froze in shock.
Going by your slogan, I guess you know what I saw.
I had to test my new appendages right away and as you can see from the attached picture, the first attempt didn’t go too well.
But in time I’ve learnt to control my extra extremities and I have to say, they’re fantastic.
As such my travel to and from work has become a lot quicker and a hell of a lot more fun. I’ve lost interest in competing for the unsolicited affections of my boss at work. After all, can the new boy perform a barrel roll over the A103?
I doubt it.
This brings me round to the second half of your franchise, the dangerous and silly sports bit. I think you can imagine the plethora of possible new franchises now open to you and I’m more than happy to become a spokesman for said sports and in general, Red Bull itself.
I’m pretty confident that this is a foolproof plan so rather than wait for you to respond I’ve gone ahead and started on the advertising component, an intrinsic part of all modern sporting events. I’ve contacted several companies that I’m on good terms with and have got them to pay me for…lets call it advertising space. If you check out the other photo supplied you can see who I’ve managed to scope out so far.
The sport itself I’ll leave up to you. You do have a rich history of making up some good ones. Come back to me with some ideas and we’ll toss around, see which ones stick. You deal with the business end, I’ll do the life-threatening extreme sports stuff.
So, lets talk business.