Ah, crushed ice. You just totally suck, don't you?
I mean, you're ice, but you're not terribly useful; the instant I put you in a drink, you're already melted, so instead of rendering the drink colder and more refreshing, you've simply watered it down. Fucking awful.
And handling you is a pain in the ass, too. I can't just grab a few cubes. I have to grab that bitch-ass pewter scoop to grab a portion of you. I use the word "portion" because you even come in vague, unsatisfying amounts. And Lord knows that scoop is no good at containing you, because you always leave such a sloppy puddle on the floor or ground anyway. GOD, I HATE YOU!
What the fuck good are you, crushed ice? What, as an Italian ice or Sno-Cone? Good in theory, but essentially what that is is you being made more palatable with sugar water. You're just there for texture and temperature, and believe me, that's not a lot.
So whenever I see you in a urinal in the men's bathroom at some "fancy" bar or restaurant, I gladly piss on you. It is just so satisfying to burn a hole right through your useless, shapeless lump. Ladies, you don't know what you're missing. No, wait. Let me just leave a small crushed iceberg in your toilet and you can give it a go!
Do your work, sun. FUCK YOU, CRUSHED ICE!
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