One More Reason to Hate Harry Potter

Alright peeps, I am officially vindictive.

Last week, I once again fell victim to some horrifying, vile, putrid, and insatiably evil little bastard candies. They sit there in this pretty blue pouch with something to the effect of gold-colored rope holding the damn thing closed, and they wait, they wait with the mindset of the ultimate prankster, so close to creating some kind of ingenious jest that just goes a wee bit too far. You all know what I’m talking about. The Devil’s candy…

BERTIE BOTTS EVERY FLAVOR BEANS!!!

Most of you who know me are aware of the fact that I really don’t like jellybeans in the first place, and yet, my curiosity got the better of me last week, even though I have attempted to ingest these turds of Cerberus before.

I found myself flashing back some years, back to my carefree days as a wily young rascal out for adventure and the commission of general chaos. I can’t exactly who’s birthday it might have been, but I remember these sons-of-bitches being around (it may have been David’s; I think he had a Harry Potter birthday at some point). Anywho, after the birthday party had begun winding down and who was staying over for the night had been established (kinda), these little asshole candies of burning death (which David had recieved as a present) began making their rounds.

I looked down at the flavor chart and immediately gasped, possibly out of fear, but since I was under the impression that candy was supposed to be sweet, tasty, and awesome, I couldn’t nessessarily believe what I was reading. The damn guide thing displayed revolting flavor combinations, such as “Booger”, “Earthworm”, “Vomit”, and “Rotten Egg”. However, whether it be that disbelief or just a damn hard headed teenager, I figured that it was just a gimmick, nothing more, and that they were just named that way to intimidate the consumer.

I opted to take a “Vomit” one, but just before I put the fucker in my mouth, I heard a gagging noise and quickly turned to my right. Maybe it was sub-conscious fear? Who knows, but what I saw didn’t nessessarily make me feel hunky dory about these little jellybeans.

My cousin John was just across the room, spitting the candy out into a napkin, with the greenest look I had ever seen one person have since the third grade when my buddy Josh found a students log underneath the slide behind the school. John shook, almost like he was having an intense, full body consuming tremor and had this paranoid, completely shocked look on his face, what I’m assuming was likely the physical representation of his stomach practicing for the 2004 Olympic Gymnastics Team.

I stood there in complete shock, envisioning my cousin John (who was just as skeptical as I was) sending his cake and ice cream spiralling into my mom’s carpet like an impending meteor strike. There were a couple of times he probably heaved a bit, and after a few minutes of treading on the line between Heaven and Hell, he just sat back down and regained his compsure.

Soon afterward, my brother was egging me on to eat the one that I pulled. Then Courtney chimed in. Then Breanne and C.J. chimed in. Then finally, my Purple Heart worthy cousin John chimed in and it was at that point, reality struck. These fucking candies could easily develop a body count! And yet, the last thing I wanted to be known as was a wimp, so with an unbelieveable amount of self-hesitation, I popped the “Vomit” flavored jellybean into my mouth and my own suffering began.

I paralleled John’s in a lot of ways, except I think mine might have been somewhat easier to deal with since John had the “Rotten Egg” one. It felt like the cold, bony hand of Death would be more welcome than this infernal piece of demonic candy, and I vowed that from that day forward, I would never EVER eat one of those fucking things again.

That is, until last week…

Baby-sweetie had some that she had gotten from her mother, at the initial request of Katy. I initially refused the hell out of them, saying everything from “No” to “Uh-Uh” to “Not no way, not no how” to “There is no way in Hell I am putting myself through that agonizing bullshit again”. Nevertheless, I caved in when Baby-Sweetie gave me that cute “please” look she gives me when she wants me to try something that I attempted to firmly establish as something I won’t do, and I put a “Sausage” one in my mouth and began chomping.

Now, even as I inform you guys, the world, of my unbelievable suffering at the hands of the Jelly Belly Candy Company, it is debated as to whether that was a “Sausage” one or an “Earthworm” one. Honestly, I don’t think I care to know, but what I do know is that, it was one of the most revolting things I have ever eaten. I didn’t get to the point where I wanted to ralph stomach acid all over the bedsheets, but it was still just gross.

Afterward, I said “no more” and got that same look from Baby-Sweetie again and so, after fear had washed over me like alcohol on Amy Winehouse, I ate my second one, which to my recollection, may have been “Black Pepper”.

Keep in mind, my peeps, that when I say I “ate one” that doesn’t nessessarily mean I “ate one” by literal definition. When it comes to these, “eating one” means basically putting it in your mouth in the first place.

“Black Pepper”, in retrospect was the easiest to eat, but it still had an abnormally high gross out factor. Then I had the “Pickle” one, which was gross, but not even it had pushed me to the edge of insanity. So, as I took some time to gather myself , I was presented with a greater challenge: “Booger”. I took the candy into my mouth and chomped for a second, then the first wave of superficial nausea hit me and I wanted to spit the thing out, but at Baby-Sweetie’s request “I had to swallow it”. So, with my masculinity being slaughtered by a jellybean, I wimpered and continued chewing… and chewing… and chewing… and chewing… and chewing… until I had disintigrated the little bastard down to where I had to swallow one time to get it down. It still took me a few tries, but I eventually got it fall into the lake of stomach acid below.

Next came “Sardine”, which nearly killed any progress I made at gettting back into the liking of seafood. This little fuck was, up to that point, the only one that made me question my sanity in the idea that I was even eating these damn things. Then, I raised the white flag. “I quit,” I said. “No more”.

Oh, but if that was all that had happened, I wouldn’t have viewed this story as even worth telling. No, it gets better (if you can really say that).

I reminisced about that fateful day when John nearly lost his life to these forsaken candies and with a CLICK, my balls grew back and I decided to “win this one for the John”.

You know, like “win this one for the Gipper”, but John’s name isn’t Gipper, so I had to substitute “John” in for “Gipper”, and… well… I think you get the idea.

I look Baby-Sweetie dead in the eyes and said “Give me Vomit”. She looked shocked a bit, yet I think she was legitimately excited, since I was pretty much sink or swim at this point. She even decided to have one with me and as it happened, we put them in our mouths and upon the first little scratch of the surface of this jellybean from Hell, I felt sick. We chewed for a second, then spit them out with authority and tenacity.

Next for me came the “Rotten Egg” one, which totally caught me off guard because Baby-Sweetie didn’t tell me that she was giving that one to me. I honestly popped it into my mouth without even thinking about what it could have been, deciding after a LONG second-and-a-half that the trashcan was more curious than I was about what this thing tasted like. Then, I finally died a little inside with the consumption of the “Soap” one, which after the doubly whammy of “Vomit” and “Rotten Egg”, was tolerable, at best. So, I cried a lot, pieces of me died, and I will once again vow to never EVER eat these motherfucking jelly bean candies from the Devil’s Uranus ever EVEREVER again!

Advertisements

About Robert L. Franklin

Ah, the About Me section - social networking's excuse for you sounding like an elitist prick. Hmm... what to say? What to say?
This entry was posted in Dystopian Mirrors. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s