I want you to bathe in the spices. And herbs. And sensations. And peppers. All 74 of them. The tangy almonds, the picante pinecones, the spongy delight, the antagonistic implications, existentialism on prom night, wasting youth, waning synapses, and hollowed self. Real, hand-picked vanilla, Dr. Larry Cherry, and co-dependent step-mommys blown into shore by the gentle embrace of the sea.
It’s science. If you can’t see it, you become it. If you yearn it, you print it. Each year draining your soul, each moment fueling its voyage. From top to bottom, left to right, the poles don’t matter in this universe.
And thus you navigate, running low on your glorious liquid, determined to make it last. Because there is nothing like the ‘pepper. You could be starving in the Maldives…’pepper. You could be frozen in the Everglades…’pepper. Traveling north, south, west, east…’pepper. Self-checkout…’pepper. Rhianna…’pepper.
So I implore you to keep the venture on high, higher than the trees upon which you climb to prospect. Because Dr. Pepper is not a gas station. It’s a lifestyle. One that is earned. Is entrusted. Is sealed.
Dr. Pepper. For. The. Ones. Who. Get. It. Done.
