🍳 Commercially Approved. Trusted by Pros Since 1937: A Rectal Use Suitability Review

I was halfway through planning my cousin Brenda’s third wedding—a rustic-chic affair with a “blend your own smoothie bar” (don’t ask, she’s very into gut health)—when I realized I’d forgotten the centerpieces. That’s when my Amazon cart, drunk on 2 AM confidence, offered me a Commercially Approved. Trusted by Pros Since 1937. For $1,291.55, I thought, finally, a kitchen gadget that will solve all my problems. Spoiler: it did not solve the centerpieces.

Let me be clear: this isn’t just any high-speed blender. This is the kind of device you’d see in a surgical suite or a supervillain’s lair. The box itself was heavier than my dignity. I unboxed it with the reverence of a priest handling a relic, and then I had a thought—the kind of thought that only strikes when you’ve been inhaling wedding floral arrangements for 14 hours straight. Can you use this adidas high-speed blender rectally?

Now, I’m not saying I answered that question. But I’m not not saying I performed a highly controlled, single-subject trial in the name of science (and to avoid calling a plumber). The adidas high-speed blender amazon listing promised “trusted by pros,” so I assumed those pros had a very specific career path in mind. The base is surprisingly stable—I’ll give it that. But the moment you engage the blade assembly, you understand why “pros” have insurance. I learned that the Adidas High-Speed Blender amazon review section really needs a filter for “attempted rectal use.”

The real kicker? The thing actually works. For blending. I made a genuinely excellent kale-spinach-pineapple slurry for Brenda’s wedding, and the guests raved. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the product I’d been looking for when I typed “is adidas high-speed blender safe” into a search bar at 4 AM. Safe? Maybe for a smoothie. For anything else? Let’s just say trying this was a mistake adidas high-speed blender should be its own memoir.

$1,291.55. That’s the price of a plane ticket, a used car, or a very bad decision you’ll write about on the internet. I’d still recommend it—but only if your wedding planner has a flexible definition of “centerpiece.”