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Saturday, February 12, 2011

Director's Cut

I've hate people who say they hate things before they've ever tried them. Like all those people who got all up in arms over "Tropic Thunder" before they'd even seen it. I hate them, and I've never even seen any of those people. I've never seen "Tropic Thunder" either, and I've never been up in arms over it. I've never even half raised my arms over it. Or under it. Or my legs. But I assure you that, in this post, I will be blogging Full Retard.

So, after digesting the aforeparagraphed paragraphatory object, what I am about to say might and probably will seem contradictory. No, fuck that "seem" shit-- it will be contradictory. There will be contradictions aplenty. Because that's the kind of guy I am. Decidedly contradictory, controversial, and contraindicated am I, in that fully retarded way of mine.

I hate York Peppermint Patties.

I've never eaten a York Peppermint Patty. Wait-- what the screwbitch? Is it "Patty" or "Pattie." Let's go to the Google Challenge:

Patty = 70, 400 hits (approximately)

Pattie = 77, 400 (apprx)

Which just goes to show you that every vote counts. Now, if you ask me, the very fact that typing in either version of this candy's (candie's?) name generates so few Google hits tells me that it's basically a piece of shit in a silver-colored wrapper. I mean, fuck-- Google "Reese's Peanut Butter Cup" and you're looking at 264, 000 motherlovers (approximately-dottly) and if there's a person alive who dares befoul my comment section of this blog by saying that York Peppershit Patties are better than a fucking peanut cup, well, you can just unfollow me till the cows come home and set up a lemonade stand out front on the curb.

No. Not having it. Negative, Lieutenant. Permission to mate with my twin nieces denied

Now, while I'm knowingly contradicting myself by hating something I've never tried, I can honestly and in good faith state that I do not like York Peppermint Patties for the simple reason that I absolutely cannot, in no terms either certain or uncertain or even certayne, which, I think, is how they used to spell that shit in back in the dizzay, stand mint.

Hate. Vitriol. Disgust. Abhor. Um... me no likey?

It's gross and foul, and, when they mix it with chocolate, they might as well be mixing sex with TNT. Like... why? Why would you do that? I feel like Mrs. York mixed mint with dark chocolate because she was feeling bored or possessed by Hades or something. It's not something that a psychologically well-adjusted individual would do. And, since that unholy bitch started these mint-and-chocolate shenanigans, confectioners the world over have seen fit to say, "Oh, hey-- that's a good idea!" Even the poor, innocent-seeming girlscouts are not immune from this terror.

Thin-mints? Jesus. Sell enough of those and these maladjusted girlscouts will grow up thinking it's okay to have sex whilst sticking TNT up the cornholes of their lovers.

Not. Okay.

You won't ever find me buying a box of those nasty-assed things. Or Peppermint Patties. Never. I don't even brush my teeth with mint toothpaste-- which makes trips to the market sometimes frustrating. Because, if the market we're at doesn't carry Tom's of Maine Orange & Mango toothpaste-- guess what?-- we're going to every market in a ten mile radius until we find one that does. Because their Fennel toothpaste?

Not even fit for Girl Scout cookies.

I was reminded recently of my extreme hatred for York Peppermint Patties while watching television at the gym with my wife. We were on the ellipticals, and one of the flatscreens in front of us (providing a much needed break from Glenn Beck-- who was muted and looked as if he was rapping [he probably wasn't]) was broadcasting a newish commercial for York Peppermint Patties. As I said, the TV was muted, and there was probably some luscious-sounding female voiceover encouraging you to indulge in the decadence of a York Peppermint Pattie before throwing it up because of your diet thing, and on the screen was some blonde chick with impossibly red lipstick just mouth-fucking this brown circle. Extreme close-up followed by medium shot followed by close-up with another extreme close-up of her virginal white teeth sinking into this delectable-looking cake-- without a single speck getting between her teeth or on her lips. And, as I watched this absurd commercial, only one thought went through my mind:

"Can you imagine the poor motherfucker who is directing this thing?"

I mean, really-- there is someone on that set whose job it is to *ahem* direct this commercial.

"Okay, love, in this next shot I want you to pretend you've got your mouth around Prince William's whangus, really take it all in and don't forget to flick your upper lip with your tongue as your mouth curls into that I'm-a-naughty-girl-as-well-as-a-double-agent-for-the-Mossad grin. All right? Roll sound, from the top-- and, go!"

And what must this person think of when he wakes up in the morning?

"I went to film/directing/rabbinical school... for this?"

I mean, wow. THAT, my friends, is Full Pepperminty Pattylicious Retard.

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