Bally Blast
I have to give it to Bally’s—the gym people—for figuring out a way to pack so much concentrated awful into such a tiny bottle. I hate them for it.
I wasn’t prepared for this. I’m thinking, “hey, it’s a shot! You hardly taste these things; it can only be so bad!” This was not a matter of my personal preferences, or a funky chemical flavor, or a weird aftertaste—this was a bizarre and putrid, distinctly organic mixture. It tastes like it’s gone bad, seemingly by design.
I have two theories on how this stuff is made. Join me as I hypothesize, won’t you?
1) A elderly witch doctor toils deep in the black heart of Bally’s Total Fitness headquarters, torn from his home and forced into an uncaring world that he can never hope to understand. Under penalty of death he’s forced to brew batch after batch of a what was once a sacred recipe, prepared in tribute to an ancient fertility god and consumed by the newlyweds in his tribe, that they might produce strong, healthy offspring. He goes through dozens of spoons per day, as each time he stirs his simmering cauldron he draws back a shriveled and charred handle (y’know, like in old Bugs Bunny cartoons). He weeps nightly. No one hears his cries.
2) Some guy scoops this stuff out of a clogged storm drain.
But for all the disgusting taste, how does it work? Poorly. I was half-expecting rocket fuel here—if it tastes this bad, part of me expects that it would work great. But, no. No kick, no buzz, no appeal whatsoever. Two thumbs down.
