Zima
Whatever happened to Zima? My fellow cronies and I were wondering this last nite.
Zima, to me, is this mystical adult drink, since at the time of its popularity, I was not thinking about alcohol. So, Zima is in some ways an enigma; a treasure trove of 90s commercials and clear malted beverages. It’s on the same page as cartoons I watched when I was younger; it’s simply a part of my childhood. We got to talking about it last night because, in many ways, its this secret that can finally be told to us, sort of like all the hidden adult jokes in children’s movies. Bring it on, Zima.
Our collaboration last nite came to the conclusion that Zima MUST be provided via keg at our next house party. One can imagine that, after years of terrible business, the Zima employees are elated that they are finally getting back to work.
The steam whistle blows. The blue collar workers clock in. The muscled, shirtless employee uses all his force to bring down a lever, setting each and every cog and spoke in the factory moving. It takes a while to get the engines running, but in the coal room, workers are feverishly shoveling fuel into the fire. Burly, crew cut men toss their hard hats upon their heads and hit the main floor, filling up various vats, wrestling with different pulleys and levers, all the while sweating immensely due to the stifling, stuffy environment of the Zima factory. Up on the second floor, steel workers are melting down their medium, welders are welding once again, blacksmith’s are crafting their instruments, and the cobbler is fitting horses with horseshoes. The Zima factory is once again moving, and heavy industry is back on the map.
Meanwhile, news spreads of the factory’s reopening. The company’’s New York operators are working feverishly at their switchboard, plugging in and transferring various phone calls of politicians (everyone from the Farmer-Labor party to the Greenbacks), journalists, carpetbaggers, scalawags, and the like. “Zima, how can I help you? Mr. Bernstein on the fourth floor? Hold, please.” The late edition of the Sunday Post has newsies screaming from the street, “Extra! Extra! Zima factory reopens! Thousands back to work!” Orders start pouring in:
This is Eric Kehoe. Stop.
Three barrels of Zima needed. Stop.
Party in Grand Rapids. Stop.
Post haste. Stop.
And as Zima is finally transported once again through the trolley car’s, Studebaker’s, and cargo ships of America, we all get to once again enjoy this savory giggle water, and everything is Jake. Cheers!
