March 30, 2018 |
Every Easter, chocolate eggs manage to twist my stubby fat arm behind my really weirdly hairy dwarf-back and make me eat them. Make me. “Eat ME!”and I have to because, well, I have to.
And they lie! Easter eggs lie and spread fake news: “Chocolate isn’t bad for you,” they say “That’s a dated worldview. Chocolate is your friend. We – us – chocolate eggs – we are the truth. Everything else is a lie. High doses of refined white sugar and small amounts of cocoa poured into egg moulds are innocuous. Eat as much as you can without being sick.” And I do. Hate them pigs!
Another thing about Easter eggs that reeeeally bugs me is they’re so weird. The whole idea of eggs made out of chocolate is weird. Eggs have yellow liquid in the middle and see-through stuff, and sometimes, not properly formed baby chicks that look like bits of grit. And you fry them. And eat them.
This is sinister enough. We don’t need chocolate eggs on top of that. How do these people sleep? Weirdos.
Dear Messrs. Cadbury and Twix and that lot at Haribo, what have you done?
Also, while we’re on it Easter eggs really hang around don’t they? There’s always that random bitty bit in the fridge looking all smug and half-eaten in silver foil. Like that irritant piss artist guest who just won’t leave the party when everybody has gone. Ridiculous.
The whole things is ridiculous. I can’t stand it. I want to kill all Easter eggs now. Kill everybody now by ramming chocolate in their fat mouths so it all melts. The end.
