After tasting the "flavor" of Sonic America's drive-in marinara with mozzarella sticks, I write a review as my alter ego, Tuscan Ramrod:
I'm no true Italian. At least not usually. Until one day as I tasted Sonic Drive-In's marinara packet I was blissfully whisked to the isle of Capri, 1951, where my bambinaia and I hung our waterlogged tunics on a line of goat-hair string to dry in the daft Naplese wind. I'd cast rocks into the gulf as I imagine Tiberius might have cast so many of his unwanted people as I look afar to the Villa San Michele. Mom would call me and my French slave Don to the kitchen where she'd be tossing the final remnants of basil into the pot from her prosciutto-factory-crippled hands. Don and I would sit cross-legged on our modest kitchen floor, and he, pooring my mother's marinara into my supple mouth, would warble an old Italian army protest. The sky, visible through the roof, would resemble the deep azure of the sun's rays tracing through the nearby cave, and I would remember my father's dying words spoken in old Yiddish patois, "Under no sky will you find marinara as heart felt as your mother's." I don't want to disprove my fallen father, but how could he have anticipated America's most supreme innovation. He could have never anticipated the ketchup like consistency, the strawberry jam-like sweetness, and the sublime lack of water/tomato separation that is Sonic Drive-In's marinara. If my mother could only be here today to witness, tongue first, how little unlike barbeque sauce this marinara, and yet how captivating the flavor which was clearly made by the mom of Sonic herself. No scientist made this sauce, my kindred amico.
Tuscan "Tuscan" Ramrod
Unable to quit thinking about the marinara, this:
...and I happened upon a blind Mexican emigrant boy named Pace, and I knew that his heart was pure. He murmured something sweet in my ear in broken English, and I was suddenly moved to dime-theatre tears, so I rubbed two packets of Sonic American Drive-in's marinara into his eyes, and would you believe, my friends, that Pace once more had sight. Everything he saw was literally rosy, and his eyes gleamed with sublime mozzerella stick oils and crisp breaded sleep. He wiped his eyes with automechanic-stained socks, and set eyes on me for the first time. "Tuscan," he half-shouted, "today I "see" you for the first time, and what I "see" ees a tremeendous soul." I threw Pace so high in the sky with joy that I'm sure he is a saint now, looking down on me from atop a small building. It's been literally hours since that happened, and I happened to catch a newspaper flung at me from a really old timey looking town crier. The headline read: "Not Enough Love in World Finally Cured by Supersoul Tuscan Ramrod." I looked the newspaper square in the editorial page eye and caterwauled, "WE owe it all Sonic American Drive-In's traditional marinara packets, paper! I am but a transient vehicle, a prophet to tomato goodness." The paper went on to be a saint also; patron saint of really fine hair gels. The paper now owns and runs a shelter for homeless CEOs. I receive a letter every Christmas from the paper, with pictures of the newspaper's Automobile Sales insert children and I bite my lip and think of how she and I could have been the next big thing on Broadway.
The newspaper was later implicated in a high-level stock fraud concocted during her comptrollership position at a highly prominent London bank, which swindled the world out of literally a gazillion euros. Tuscan went on to become TV's most highly paid People's Court bailiff. Pace had a sex change operation, and farmed out HEr uterus, raising a hybrid team of super-cosmonauts which now control greater West Milky Way.