What the Hell is Grenadine?

I’ve got a question that needs to be answered: what the fucking shit is grenadine? Does anyone know? And no, I’m not looking for a list of ingredients that I could easily read on the back of the bottle. Cholesterol? What’s that? Grams of fat? Don’t care! I want a real answer. Some off-the-dome type shit. So I guess I’ll open the floor to the real culprit herself: Grenadine.

Hey, man! Let’s have a chat. In fact, I have many questions for you, and I don’t have all day. First, who are you? Second, what are you hiding? Third, are you and Maraschino Cherry cousins? Okay, I can see your lid’s still screwed on tight, so let’s just start with some easy ones:

Are you cherry flavored?

What do you mean “No”? Deadass? Wow. Pomegranate? You mean the fruit with seeds that taste like a pebble covered in Orbeez? Okay I guess…

Are you a syrup or a juice?

A juice that’s cooked into a syrup? God I’m furious. Don’t say anymore stupid shit or else I’ll make you into a Shirley Temple and fart in your glass. Watch yourself.

Is an alcoholic Shirley Temple called a “Tipsy Temple”?

I’m done.

My questioning has come to an end, Grenadine. I just can’t take it anymore… I’m sorry for putting you on the spot. If I’m being honest, my mom never let me eat or drink anything with red dye in it, which is why you’ve always been bad for me. In my world, you’ve always been the bad boy, and I’ve always been the good girl. You’re the boyfriend with the beanie babies on iCarly, and I’m Miranda Cosgrove, aka the titular Carly. You’re Rodrick and I’m Greg–well nevermind. You get what I’m saying, right? Grenadine, be free now. I know I’m not the girl for you, but for what it’s worth, I think you’ll make a cocktail very happy someday.