Diet Coke was originally a ritual beverage of the ancient Greeks, known as shkohonaplasti (literally: Cancer Juice). Oompa Loompas picked aspartame berries and, after distilling for 94 minutes, created this holy drink. It was then known best as Ambrosia Lite, or drink of the lesser Gods, such as Thithiuth, God of Stigmatizing Speech Impediments and Pheremone, Goddess of Leg-Humping and Overcome Hangnails. It was dropped from the Latin Pantheon when it was found to induce anorexia in the Vestal Virgins. So begins the hidden history of Diet Coke.
The drink was resurrected during the days of Christ and considered as the official refreshment of the Last Supper. An early manuscript, recently recovered, has, "drink this carbonated sugar water in remembrance of me." 11th hour negotiations fell apart when Jesus refused to wear the logo of his prospective patch during crucifixion. We only narrowly escaped "give us this day our daily caffeine."
In Paris during the 20's, it was briefly experimented with as a hallucinogen. It was similar to absinthe in its despicable taste and powerful narcotic content, with the added benefit of carbonation, still a novelty to the pre-modernists. Its time had still not come, however, as writers found its high to be unsuitable to any writing more substantial than Jane Austen adaptations set in the as-yet-undeveloped Los Angeles. Diet Coke once more had to retreat from the limelight, waiting for its time to surface at last.
But when it did, it sure did. The Coca-Cola corporation could barely meet the demand and did everything they could to handicap the wunderkind that so badly bruised Original Coke's ego that New Coke had to be brought in temporarily during Original's covered up nervous breakdown. Even the hiring of Paula Abdul as a spokesperson did little to slow sales of this incomprehensible beverage.
Diet Coke is the last of a dying breed: overindulgences to be had. Restaurants, long the rightful home of gluttony, have been whittled down by the State of California to a shadow of their former themselves. Its laws prohibit the compulsive smoking that is, I am convinced, directly responsible for every decent word of literature written in the past three centuries. Its fashions, slowly propagating up from LA, conspire to shrink dishes until they resemble nothing so much as a true meal's leftovers. Its economics bring entrée-priced appetizers. Nothing is so depressing as trying to drown one's sorrows in mozzarella sticks that cost $1.20. Each.
So here I write in my beverage-induced inspiration. I managed to down a full gallon before the Denny's dispenser ran out and I shrank off, not making a fuss over their claimed all-you-can-drink policy. The thrill is leaving me as I type, but I still enjoy it. By now, my blood is brown and artificially sweet and no doubt my urine contains enough caffeine to explode the hearts of mice, babies, and other such small animals. Just the way I like it.

-Bentley