Dear Skittles,
What the fuck are you trying to pull? Did you really think you’d get away with it? Did you believe the good people of the world would stand by and let you rape their mouths without crying out for justice?
My demands
- Stop selling chocolate Skittles.
- Apologize publicly.
- Jettison all remaining chocolate Skittles—or any regular Skittles which may have been tainted through accidental contact—into space.
- Euthanize all the diseased, caged rabbits whose shit you harvest to produce the “pudding” flavor.
- Fire everyone in marketing who thought this was a good idea, then fire whoever hired them.
- 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 knew damn well I couldn’t stand in line at CVS for my my nasal spray and Mach 3 refills without scanning the candy rack.
I just didn’t know what I was walking into. 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.
Of course, I had my doubts. You don’t survive Circus Peanuts and Peeps without learning there’s shitty candy out there. But you earned my trust, Skittles. You’re one of the respectable candies; one of the good old boys. You’ve always been there for me, 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.
So when that little voice in my head said “Chocolate Skittles is a terrible idea,” I just stuffed it down into my subconscious with my summer camp memories and all the gay stuff.
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 S’mores. S’mores was OK. But that’s no excuse.
Especially when the colors you chose are so similar, it’s nearly impossible to sort the merely crappy flavors from the candy-coated abortions. Note to Skittles: no one wants to eat abortions. That’s RULE ONE of candy.
The saddest thing of all is that now I don’t 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.
If there’s any justice in the world, the next time we hear from the Skittles CEO will be his testimony at the Hague for crimes against humanity.