We’re Going To Enjoy This Cocaine-Fueled Mason Jar Rocket Ride For As Long As It Lasts

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We’re Going To Enjoy This Cocaine-Fueled Mason Jar Rocket Ride For As Long As It Lasts

When I became an executive of a company that produces mason jars back in 2003, I never dreamed my life was going to be like this. A decade ago, we were just another glassware business, but now, there’s not a precious little bar in New York, L.A., or anywhere else that isn’t serving drinks out of our iconic containers. And now that mason jars are on top, now that my fellow executives and I are goddamn beverage conquistadors, we’re going to enjoy this cocaine-fueled rocket ride for as long as it lasts.

I’m blasting off to fucking Mars, dicksuckers, and I’m headed straight through the belly of the goddamn sun!

As long as every gastropub and Williamsburg speakeasy wants to keep pouring craft cocktails into our jars, we’re gonna swim in uncut Peruvian street spice and party like savages. You keep mounting mason jars by your bathroom sinks and using them as toothbrush holders, and we’ll keep buying Fabergé fucking eggs faster than Sotheby’s auctioneers can shit ’em out. You make mason jars into jack-o’-lanterns, we wear tie pins that could fucking put a kid through college.

You don’t think I’m a bona fide golden king? I’m on a hovercraft right now. That’s what that sweet crafting green will get you. That, and world-class trim at every nightclub VIP room on earth.

Seriously, it’s like my mansion magically grows a new Italianate fountain every time someone fills our jars with seashells and uses them as decorative centerpieces. I have eight infinity pools. Look, I never expected any of this from mason jars. Who would? You don’t get a 600-foot mega-yacht and not give an ever-loving fuck if you sink it if all you’ve got bankrolling you are little old ladies canning strawberry preserves. But the way these babies are selling, there’s no limit to what my colleagues and I can get away with. We’re better than men, better than gods—we are jar-powered god slaughterers!

I haven’t slept in five days, and I don’t give a shit. I don’t even remember buying this cheetah.

Do you know what I can do? I can walk into any bed and breakfast in America and just take my dick out, right in front of everyone. And no one’s going to say shit to me. Because they know that without me, those mason jar light fixtures with a bulb strung through the lid wouldn’t exist. They know that I gave them that nice little rustic touch—Me! I did it! I fucking did that! So, my room better be ready, and there better be a kilo of Vermont’s finest crystal on my pillow, too, because if there isn’t, I’m taking every one of my jars out to my Bugatti with me and you can explain to your guests why your flowers are stuffed in a boring ceramic vase that makes them want to blow their goddamn brains out!

Do you understand me? I’m fucking everywhere now because you ballbags can’t get enough quaint jar action. I’m in the Acropolis kicking over vases; I’m in China dick-slapping terra-cotta warriors; I’m in the goddamn British Museum jizzing on the Rosetta Stone, ’cause I’ve got an all-access pass to everywhere and I’m blitzed out of my skull. I’m the high priest of eternity!

Hey, don’t get me wrong. I know you’ll walk away from mason jars eventually. One of these days, you turncoat fucks will be done with your mason jar snow globes and spice planters, and you’ll move on to vintage soda bottles or pewter beer steins or whatever other trendy container gets you rock hard for a while. But until you do, we’ll just go right on fisting porn stars five at a time on the 160th floor of the Burj Khalifa—put a picture of that on your little Pinterest page under “Cute Wedding Ideas.” When we at Ball Mason Jars finally go down, we’re doing it like the Vikings fucking wish they did.

But guess what? I’ve also got investments in wall hangings, votive candles, wicker wreaths, and a hundred other types of wholesome homespun crafts that you brain-dead little dipshits eat right up. The other guys at my company might be content to slink back to obscurity once mason jars are over. But not me. I’m not about to walk away from my new life. I am everything, I’m the world, I’m the last nail they stuck in Jesus, and I’m gonna keep burning and burning and burning till I’m a crispy fucking corpse or you finally get tired of DIY furnishings, which will be never.

Now go make some wind chimes out of mason jar lids. I want another island.

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