Chocolate Skittles: Like Being Mouth Raped by Candy

Dear Skittles,

What the fuck are you trying to do to us? Did you really think you'd get away with it? Did you really think the righteous people of the world would stand idly by and let you rape their mouths without crying out for justice?

Stop selling chocolate Skittles. I have no demand beyond that. Actually, no, that's a lie. I have a whole list of demands:

1. Stop selling chocolate Skittles.

2. Apologize publicly.

3. Jettison all remaining chocolate Skittlesor any regular Skittles which may have been tainted through accidental contactinto space.

4. Euthanize all the diseased, caged rabbits whose shit you harvest to produce the pudding flavor.

5. Fire the Japanese guy in marketing who thought this was a good idea.

6. Put the entirety of your research and development budget towards inventing the technology required to make me forget there ever was such a thing.

The worst part of all this, the bitterest betrayal, lies in the fact that you KNEW Id have to try them. You know damn well Im not going stand in line at CVS to pay for my nasal spray and Donettes and not scan the candy rack. And whats waiting there for me? Lo and behold, an airtight bag of baboon crap.

But I didnt know that. How could I? To my nave mind, this was a new experience waiting to be enjoyed, an exciting opportunity to take my taste buds on a chocolaty ride to cocoa town, with a possible pit stop in the unincorporated municipality of Donetteville.

Of course, I had my doubts. You dont survive Circus Peanuts and Lucas and not realize theres shitty candy out there. But you had my trust, Skittles. Youre one of the respectable candies; one of the good old boys. Since time out of mind, youve been there, right alongside M&Ms and Snickers, reliable as a Toyota pickup hauling a load of delicious fruit that hurts to chew.

Even Sour Skittles were all right; I mean, you waited for Warheads and Sour Patch Kids to pave the way, then you went in. You were smart about it. You didnt blunder down the hall of candydom farting on black licorice and trying to get me to eat it.

Youve kept your image fresh, too. Youve got those funny non-sequitor commercials with the sheep-people, and your bags are about as colorful as they come. So when that little voice in my head said Michael, chocolate Skittles is a terrible idea, I just stuffed it down into my subconscious with my summer camp memories and all the gay stuff.

But now, its all changed. Now I dont care how many sheep-headed people or Skittle/Midas hybrids or piata men tell me to lick their brown rainbow, it wont erase the holocaust that ripped though my mouth that day, or the hours of my life lost retching into a sink and gargling turpentine after downing a handful of brownie batter.

For a while, I was convinced my bag had been accidentally filled with compressed chemical pellets or faulty ball bearings. Each hideous flavor was like a depth charge plummeting into my stomach, there to explode and expel a lethal dose of sour hate.

Except Smores. Smores was OK. But thats no excuse.

Especially when the colors you chose are so similar, its nearly impossible to sort the merely crappy flavors from the candy-coated abortions. Note to Skittles: no one wants to eat abortions. Thats like the first thing that was established in the history of candy. Thats like RULE ONE.

The saddest thing of all is that now I dont even like regular Skittles. Your hot Carl of a candy so coated my tongue with caramel excrement that even the fruity deliciousness of standard, God-fearing, American Skittles have lost their luster. The memories are just too painful.

So congratulations. You made the Attack of the Clones of candy.

If theres any justice in the world, the next time youre heard from will be your testimony at the Hague when youre tried for crimes against humanity.


A guy whos way too into candy.

When not using his own tongue as your first line of defense, Michael serves as head writer for and co-founder of Those Aren't Muskets!

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