Take a moment to imagine the Kool-aid Man, old.

His jug is empty, only a thin sugary crust and dessicated fruit fly corpses on the bottom indicating his former contents.

His face cracked, crazed, glass cloudy, rim chipped.

One arm has been shattered off into a sharp splinter

Instead of bursting through a wall, he instead clinks against it. He remembers the movement, but can neither do it nor recall why.

He spends hours, clinking his head against a wall. The glass there is scratched into opacity.

When not clinking his head against a wall, he sits, mumbling "oh yeah" to his neighbors.

Count Chocula, toothless and dried out like a raisin, can no longer hear him.

Tony the Tiger wheels his chair to the other side of the room.

An orderly sneezes.

10 days later, the Kool-aid Man, Tony the Tiger, and Frankenberry are on ventilators.

His wheezes sound like someone hitting a bag of glass shards with a baseball bat.

Hours later, Tony the Tiger breathes his last.

Their funerals are streamed to family and loved ones.

Kool-aid Man's grandchild, a coffee mug, goes viral with a post blaming the catastrophic ineptitude of the US pandemic response.