by Nathanael Matos
In the midst of the ongoing global pandemic, beloved beer brand Corona has taken a hit in sales recently. Despite no actual link between the alcoholic beverage and COVID-19, the shared naming of the two has made many consumers hesitant to purchase any Corona-brand beers. “I don’t trust it,” said one savvy consumer while standing six feet away from this reporter. “I heard that drinking [Corona] makes you turn Italian and die. I don’t know which part of that is worse!” He then made a mad dash towards the toiletry aisle whilst yelling something about needing to be prepared for Taco Tuesday.
In a bold advertising campaign, Corona has decided to rebrand COVID-19 as Dos Equis-virus. Recent reports say that high-ranking officials from the CDC and WHO have received offers from the beer company to change the name of COVID-19 officially. While none have yet to take up the offer, Corona seems adamant about this move and is likely to continue their offers.
I visited Corona headquarters yesterday to gain a greater insight on the inner workings of the company during this trying time. As I walked through the door, I was immediately struck with a haunting visage, one so cursed that it will forever remain burned in my consciousness. I was greeted by a glass-eyed receptionist whose face was pulled back into a wide smile that showed every one of her pearlescent white teeth. Upon seeing me, she wordlessly pulled a six-pack of Corona Extra and placed it into a red hand wagon. She pulled it to me and put the handle into my hand, then beckoned me to follow her deeper into the compound. I slowly followed the receptionist, dragging the squeaky hand-cart past a group of employees ritualistically dancing around a stack of papers, pouring Dos Equis onto them and lighting them on fire. Before I entered the next room, one of them rushed up to me and placed a small pile of smouldering ashes into the cart.
I was then led to the office of Bill Newlands (CEO of Constellation Brands, owners of Corona Beer). As I interviewed him, rather than answering any of my questions, he stared at me with a hollow expression. However, when I mentioned the recent campaign to re-brand COVID-19, he responded by pulling out a bottle of Corona Light, biting the neck off, chewing the glass, and pouring the beer over his head. He then placed the broken bottle into the cart beside me, removed his suit to reveal a wingsuit, then promptly dove out the window onto the street below.
Before I could peer further out the window to follow Newlands’ movements, the receptionist came into the room followed by two security guards wearing New Years glasses from 2004. In unison, the three individuals began chanting the lyrics to the Cha-Cha Slide while the two security guards forced my head into a sack. The last words I heard before my vision faded to black were “How low can you go?” being whispered hauntingly into my ears.
I awoke in my bedroom, or at least I thought. The door was locked and my window that usually overlooked the picturesque New England suburb I reside in was instead blacked out. Everything was there though, including my baby photos that I have inside my desk. The only additions were the wagon that had been given to me upon entering Corona headquarters and its contents, and a sticky note upon my laptop that read, “Tell your story.”
I have no food.
Only Corona. (The beer.)
I am scared.
Help.
This is an ongoing story that the Bardvark will continue to follow as it develops.
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