The unspoken pandemic

To what do I owe this over-rated, running-a-bit-behind return to the minor fame of my self-imposed web-writings? I suppose it would be with the spurring on by some foodstuff, or amazing experience. But today my friends, I choose to write to you about circus peanuts.

Those delightful little candy-like things that actually bring a bad name to candy. And if CVS ever falls victim to the current trend of economic downfall, I shall know that it is some small part because they’ve got WAY too much money tied up in circus peanut production.

Some of the lucky few have actually been privy to the oral beginnings of this post, and have wasted precious anytime minutes listening to me wax poetic on the degredation that has quietly subverted our food culture over the past 50 years.

Where did they come from? More specifically, why don’t they taste like peanuts? Why don’t they come from the circus? Why must they have that banana horrificness to them? All valid points, eh? The only point of contention I could find that in any way supported their existence is the purported idea that they helped spawn Lucky Charms cereal, but this is according to the internet, and if you’re reading this, we all know how truthful that is. They remind me of the poison goo my landlord in London sprayed on exposed pipes to deter cockroaches. And that stuff tasted a whole lot better than circus peanuts. I want to believe that they fall into the circle of life somehow. Maybe the roaches eat the circus peanuts, then they get killed when they eat the look-alike poison goo, and then the goo feeds off the roaches, and then that feed, in turn, makes magical things happen; if you smoke it. And somewhere in there Simba’s father dies, but hopefully not’s no spoiler alert for you.

Remember that blue tacky crap that you were supposed to use to hang up your posters in college, so the wall of your dorm room didn’t look like a cheese with disproportionate gas fermentation? Yeah, I tried to smoke that. I got a contact high. By that I mean, I contacted the floor at high speed after trying to pull air through a non-porous clay, and became light-headed. I woke up yearning for Advil and a traditional Portsmouth Abbey bacon sandwich. White bread, bacon, more bacon, and if you were feeling daper, a second piece of white bread. Pat Walters was the king of bacon sandwich. I wonder if he’s still alive…..

*Save lives. Don’t make out with pigs.