No Fear
I’m just gonna throw this right out there: not delicious. No part of this drink is appealing to me. I don’t like the taste, I don’t like the can, and I sorta resent the store clerk who sold it to me. Even the name “No Fear” is awful—it speaks to me of tribal shoulder tattoos and black, wolf-centric t-shirts.
For the record, too, I wouldn’t be adverse to giving a quick open-hand slap to whomever designed the label. There are seven different fonts on the front of the can. That’s right, seven typefaces were harmed in the making of this can.
It’s kind of got a raw sugary taste, in what seems to be a half-assed attempt at covering up a sickly medicinal vibe. And I mean, hey, maybe it’s got a nice little kick to it! Maybe drinking it will be me into some kind of crazy transcendental caffeine-zone. Hell, maybe drinking one full can will instill in the drinker the ability to fly and shoot lasers our of their eyes. Unfortunately, this is something I will never know, as the can I bought just sat on my desk being offensive to each one of my senses for the duration of the work day.
I had a Red Bull.
