Do you hear the people sing, singing the song of angry men? Can you hear the battle cries that tear through their corn syrup-coated throats as they say “no” and “never” to the tyrannical NYC soda ban that will soon go into effect and ruin our lives forever? While some weak consumers of beverages have already crumpled in the corner, turning belly-up to Mayor Bloomberg like a group of subservient dogs, others have grabbed their two liters, headed to the barricade and told their gods to ready for blood. And by blood, what I mean is a lot of whining and misplaced senses of persecution.
“I’m going to drink as many 20-ounce sodas as I can,” says Greenpoint waitress JoAnn Mikulak, bravely telling the New York Times of her personal plans for the three-month grace period that the city of New York is allowing businesses to adapt to the ban. (“Here’s to you, Bloomberg, you son of a bitch,” she’ll say three months from now as she tips back her last 20-ounce, the one that she’s quietly laced with cyanide.)
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