Nectar, Take Note

I don't know who's idea it was to put non-carbonated beverages in cans—honestly, I don't—but I doubt it was a group decision. I have come to feel this way because whenever I am about to twist off the top of a bottled beverage, be it plastic or glass, and even before I insert straw here, I usually pause to think, hmm... I wonder if I'm supposed to shake this, and subsequently, no, it does not appear that way, or, ah yes, it says here, "shake well," depending—but replace that bottle or box/carton with a can, and that thought process is replaced entirely by the much simpler (though still poised and articulate) oh boy, here goes nothing, and I certainly am not alone in this.

That's right, whoever came up with putting non-carbonated drinks in cans must have been the single person on earth to make it to adulthood without being conditioned to believe that all beverages in cans, when shaken, gain horrible destructive powers—that there are safer ways of running with scissors than there are of running with Pepsi-Cola(s)—that only very stupid people ever say "hey broskie, throw me a beer," and that said beers thrown to said people are usually not their first of the heretofore unmentioned afternoon.

Somewhere, probably in a desert untouched by civilization, a butterfly (presumably a nomadic butterfly) flapped its wings in just such a way that the shifting winds of the earth somehow shielded a solitary person from this common knowledge, and that person went on to market nectar—yes, nectar—in cans. If anyone should have known this would happen, it was the butterfly, who should have known better and who was an idiot. The butterfly's victim, I can only regard as tragically sheltered, because anyone who would dare add copious amounts of sugar to the juice and puree of everyone's favorite fruits in the world (that's right mango, I'm talking about you... you too papaya... alright banana, you can come too, as long as you bring your friends) and offer it to the masses for less than the price of an expensive cup of coffee demands our respect.

However, how many more untold thousands must pick up cans of nectar, usually on vacation or over at a friend's house, and open them cautiously before realizing that (oh crap) this is the solitary canned product in the universe that you're supposed to shake, before we look past that respect and see a problem that needs to be fixed? How many faceless, nameless, thirsty people will be forced to improvise a method for shaking an open can before we gather together and do something about it? How long before it isn't just some guy on the street corner or some friend of a friend? How long before you find yourself with a little bit of nectar on your thumb, and a little dripping down your hand—before some of it ends up on your pants? How long, people? How long?