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The Croix of the Matter: the Agony and Anguish of LaCroix Sparkling Water


It may be the bestselling carbonated water in the United States, but not everyone is so keen on the mild fruity flavors of LaCroix. Sarah Lally Buy Photos

LaCroix Sparkling Water. The number one carbonated water brand in the United States. Known to some as the most delicious drink invented within the last century — it is the all-occasion beverage for the most stylish of carbonation connoisseurs. 

But do not be fooled by its gorgeous packaging or its chic branding. LaCroix is just sparkling water by any other fancy name, and sparkling water is gross. 

I must be honest: this manifesto is not only inspired by LaCroix. I rail against all sparkling water
— San Pellegrino, Perrier, store-brand seltzer — because sparkling water is an abomination. It was invented by Europeans because they apparently have not invented water filtration yet and have to settle for angry water or beer (which, as an aside, tastes like a yeast infection). 

But LaCroix rises above them all as the most despicable. Its distinctive design is deceptively appealing, but the drink itself — oh, a horror. Satan keeps a LaCroix in the cupholder of his throne. 

I concede that LaCroix’s branding is almost flawless. A beautiful watercolor can, emblazoned with an elegantly casual text reading “LaCroix sparkling water.” Its basic flavor is “pure,” other flavors are “essenced” — all the words utilized on can itself are graceful, tasteful and sophisticated. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same about the salty water living inside this aluminum art. 

To get straight to the point: LaCroix tastes like drinking Wet Wipes. It tastes like vinegar water. It tastes like Windex. It tastes like antifreeze, but unlike that, drinking LaCroix unfortunately won’t kill me. 

It tastes like fruit-flavored vape smoke upon which the power of the water cycle was deployed. We, as humans, allowed a company to turn Greg’s mediocre smoke rings into cannable liquid. We must all live with this shame, this black mark on our collective soul. 

It tastes like washing yourself with Tide PODS. It is a cry for help — a lone wail in the night, begging, begging, please don’t make me drink LaCroix. For the love of god, just give me plain tap water. It’s just as hydrating and doesn’t taste angry.

LaCroix tastes like scented candles. It tastes like shitty Sprite. To some, LaCroix has the audacity to have the flavor of wood chips (taste the playground). I cannot believe that LaCroix is allowed to be sold in stores, as it violates several Nuremberg principles.

If I’m in the desert with a can of LaCroix and motor oil, I’m drinking the motor oil. 

LaCroix would be improved by any addition. Kool-Aid powder. Raw eggs. A blended iPhone. The shards of glass running down my throat would add an appealing iron-esque aftertaste to help me forget about the assault LaCroix just executed upon these taste buds of mine.

And the name, LaCroix, even is flawed. It is pretentious to an almost despicable degree. What red-blooded American knows how to pronounce a French word? Recent history has shown that we can hardly handle calling fried potatoes “french fries.” Much like “freedom fries,” LaCroix might do well to rebrand into something more patriotic — more essentially American. Some options include: LaCowboy, LaConfederate, LaColonelSanders, and/or LaColonialActionsTakenAgainstNativeAmericans. 

The flavor of LaCroix — and all sparkling water — cannot be masked by its colorful cans and pastel packaging. It is a violation of everything humane. Its fame is due to impressive branding, millennial devotion and ultimately represents the most melanin-deficient of our culture. The Caucasity of it all.  

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