Too Good to be True

There are some things in life you just don't expect.  Like finding the best pizza you ever did eat at a little hole-in-the-wall, unsuspecting pizzeria called Vinnie's or Luigi's smooshed between and dwarfed by two bookending buildings (the aura is even better if you have to walk down 4 1/2 steps to the front entrance creating a slightly cavernous I'm below ground, but really I'm not; this could be claustrophobic but it's actually kinda cozy type feel to the place).  Or like when you finally stop at a seedy-looking, gaudily aluminum-paneled diner decorated with, among many things, a faux 70s-era jukebox.  Even though you've driven by a million times, you stop this time because it's the only place open at 1am and you finally discover they serve the biggest, fluffiest buttermilk pancakes you've ever set eyes on.

Then there are some things that are just too good to be true.  Like those online pop-up ads telling you that you're the site's 10,000th visitor and as such they'd like to give you $10,000 (if you would just give them your social security and credit card numbers); or that you've been chosen to fill out a quick survey for a free iPad (and then you end up having to sign away your life by filling out a minimum of 5 offers from advertisers that will hunt you down and relentlessly torture you if you ever decide to cancel your subscriptions); or Prince Khemczaerasikkii's illustrious aunt died and left him boodles of money that he doesn't know what to do with and wants your help getting it into the US and all he needs is your bank account number to transfer it and viola you are rewarded with 50% of his inheritance.

I had a similar experience.  Sort of.  But not as illegal.  It was more like finding Luigi's (i've never actually found Luigi's, but I've always thought it would be nice if I did).

Take a look.  Careful like.

I was down apartment shopping in Charlottesville for med school.  Found a nice place but had some time to kill before the person showing the place turned up.  So what better to do than scout out the communal laundry room.  Sounds like fun, right?  No, I guess not.  But I was bored. 

And right there, smack in the grungy, old corner looking seedy, dilapidated and right out of the 70s sat this old Pepsi vending machine. 

I'm not much a fan of soda, but I love playing this game called If I were going to get something, what would I get? (it's very similar to the highway game played on road trips known by the equally descriptive name of If I were going to stop at this rest stop, where would I go at the food court? it's super fun.  try changing up tradition and slip it in between the 155th and 156th time you play the alphabet game).  And naturally, when playing If I were going to get something, what would I get?, you want to keep it as realistic as possible so you have to look at how much it'll cost you (hint hint look at the picture again).

And that's when I got the Prince Khemczaerasikkii email-shudder down my spine. $0.50 for a soda??! Really?  Was I actually going to be taken in by Prince Khemczaerasikkii's broken English email suspiciously addressed to "Dear United States Residing Recipient"? I half expected this to happen.  But, it was one of those things where even if you don't want the soda, you have to try it just to see if it actually works.  And it did. Made my day in fact.  I talked about it for the next 8 hours.  Prince-man had actually transferred the money to my account.  Booyah!

Let's go on a brief tangent shall we?  What does "Dr. Pepper is made with 23 flavors" mean?  I certainly can't taste 23 different flavors all at once?  In fact, I just get one, general taste (albeit with multiple layers) in my mouth that I call Dr. Pepper.  And what does "flavor" even mean?  Are there 23 different flavor-producing compounds that each individually activate a taste receptor on my tongue?  In that case, I ask, "Why only 23? That's pitiful."  Don't most foods have multiple flavor elements?  Or, does this make it better than another product that just has 15 so-called "flavors"?

Come on Dr. Pepper guy.  And, am I really supposed to trust a guy who named it after the father of the girl he wanted to marry?  This qualifies the man as a super smooth, fast-talking salesman - a professional at marketing as well.  He's basically dancing on your brainwaves with that 23 flavor tagline.  Oh well, it may not be Luigi's or buttermilk pancakes, but I can't argue with 50 cents.