At one point, I wrote ‘methinks,’ which… never have I done before.” But that tiny glass cut through all that. ![]() My high alcohol tolerance usually negates some of the effects of being 5-foot-0, so normally I can drink like a normal-sized human. “I drank the equivalent of a modest wine pour. “It tasted like one of those Little Hug drinks I was given at summer camp at the Boys & Girls club, making me fear that were my 6-year-old niece to get ahold of some BeatBox, she’d chug it,” she says. ![]() She was impressed by its drinkability and potency. I gave a splash to MEL’s editorial assistant, Magdalene Taylor, who is actually a suitable age for industry-disruptor intoxicants. Even then, the 8 grams of sugar were there in full force. Notes of melted Ring Pop, followed by a harsher, vodkaish aftertaste. Reasoning that Blue Razzberry is often the trainwreck in artificially flavored booze scenarios - and that the BeatBox’s wine base could only make matters worse - I tried this strain first. At $3.50 a pop, that worked out to roughly $1 per serving. The alcohol content was appealingly heavy (11.1% ABV), and the math on the label declared each 16.9 fluid ounces to be the equivalent of 3.4 drinks. Right away, I saw one clear advantage to the BeatBoxes: They’re resealable, so opening one isn’t the commitment that cracking a can of Loko was. It took a bit of poking around, but I did find individual boxes of all three varieties: Blue Razzberry, Pink Lemonade and Fruit Punch. Using the handy store locator widget on the BeatBox Beverages site, I discovered that a retailer close to the MEL office - Lincoln Liquor Locker - carries the stuff. Was this the overly sweet, high-ABV concoction I’d been waiting for? Something even more gloriously trashy than the renaissance of icing? It became my mission to find out. I learned that the company had drawn a $1 million investment from Mark Cuban on Shark Tank in 2014 and, after some growing pains, is now poised for a big expansion push. So when a buddy texted me about BeatBox Beverages, a “portable party punch” whose website looks like the marketing material for Fyre Fest, I snapped to attention. And while I was actually grateful to the nanny state for taking away a $1.50 beverage that had me blackout by the end of a Saturday-night pregame, I still pined for something as depraved and dangerous to imbibe.Īs you might expect, nostalgia, masochism and being my own worst influence have kept me on the lookout for Four Loko 2.0 - a drink to take me to the brink. We hoarded original-formula cans for a few months, traded rumors about which places were still selling it and resorted to mixing our own “Bathtub Loko.” But the magic was gone. “It’s all the Loko,” I slurred triumphantly.īy 2010, the federal government had forced the manufacturers of Four Loko to pull the product and use a stimulant-free recipe instead. At which point I decided, with astonishing clarity, to zip up and run for it down a one-way street so they couldn’t follow me. When I found my friends again, they couldn’t believe I had evaded the law (or hadn’t just waited till the next bar to relieve myself). Once, after crushing 23.5 ounces of the battery-acid-like lemon-raspberry flavor, I decided to take a piss on a very crowded part of Houston Street in Lower Manhattan, then heard some cops blip their siren and tell me to freeze. ![]() A single can was enough to get your ass turnt, and downing a pair - also known as going “Ocho Loko” - was damn near suicidal.Īs stupid as Loko made me, I couldn’t deny its invincible high. I and countless other recently graduated, totally fucked millennials were smitten with the malt liquor energy drink, which functioned as cheap rocket fuel for weekend binges. Back in the stagnant years of the Great Recession, a beacon of nihilist joy shone through the darkness: Four Loko.
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