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 Skittles—or any regular Skittles which may have been tainted through accidental contact—into 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 I’d have to try them. You know damn well I’m not going stand in line at CVS to pay for my nasal spray and Donettes and not scan the candy rack. And what’s waiting there for me? Lo and behold, an airtight bag of baboon crap. But I didn’t know that. How could I? To my naïve 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 don’t survive Circus Peanuts and Lucas and not realize there’s shitty candy out there. But you had my trust, Skittles. You’re one of the respectable candies; one of the good old boys. Since time out of mind, you’ve been there, right alongside M&M’s 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 didn’t blunder down the hall of candydom farting on black licorice and trying to get me to eat it.
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!