Mint 3 Musketeers

As a kid the candy bar selection in the suburbs of Montreal was terrible. We had Mars, Snickers, Caramilk, Crunchie, and occasionally Butterfingers caked completely in dust. As a nerdy kid with no friends and overbearing parents, candy was the only way I knew how to enjoy my shitty little life.

As one would correctly assume, the selection available to me made it quite difficult to not constantly want to fucking hang myself with my shoestrings after my folks went to bed. That's one of the main reasons I would look forward to spending summers with my Nanny in Vermont (that and in all seriousness she was the absolute greatest person I have ever known). I would stuff my dirty little face with 100 Grands, Baby Ruths, Whatchamacallits, and basically anything I could get my hands on that I didn't have at home. Thankfully, my old man, removed from the pressures of running a college for a few months, was relaxed and would happily open his wallet up and let me go fucking nuts.

I had a pretty steady rotation of snacks but 3 Musketeers bars where never a part of it. That was of course until I saw that 3 Musketeers movie during the summer of '93.

Keiffer Sutherland and Charlie Sheen, fuck I was stoked. For the rest of that summer that's all I ate. I would swashbuckle the fuck out of whatever I wanted. I was a bad motherfucker with a giant hat and a puffy shirt. I was fucking awesome. Eventually I discovered tits and I decided I would take up cockbuckling instead, so my love for 3 Musketeers (the Lifestyle and the Chocolate Bar) fell by the wayside. But every once in a while I would purchase a 3 Musketeers bar and relive the past.

It's like slipping the dick to an ex-girlfriend.

This one time at New Years' when I still got high (I am now a Straight Edge Warrior) I called up an ex-girlfriend. I was slurring my speech (I had been drinking as well: I used to RAGE) and she didn't recognize my voice. I flipped my shit completely. I just lost my fucking mind. I started accusing her of cheating on me (which was completely unfounded) and saying that when she got her hair done that one time it was like a wet poodle got a fucking perm (at the time I thought this was the fucking insult to end them all; in hindsight it's fucking ridiculous) and just being a fucking prick all around. She started getting upset and her mom picked up the phone and then I flipped my shit even more. I started telling her she had fucking warts on her junk, that her bush smelled like someone lit a trash heap on fire, once again, just being wholly miserable. The argument kept getting dialed up and I lost it and threw the phone through my friend's window, smashing it (obviously) in the process. We went outside and made snow angels afterward.

Today at work I bought this fucking skinny mint-flavoured 3 Musketeers bar. I wanted to call it up in the hopes it would forget who I was so I could smash it's stupid fucking face in with my giant heel.

Mint. Fucking Mint. Mint in combination with anything can suck my hairy ass. It's such bullshit. I don't even know what fuck is wrong with me that I would buy this piece of shit.

Imagine you have a baby, a newborn son and you and your wife are staring into its cute little eyeballs and then your little guy belches and poisonous snakes pour out of him and bite your wife in the face. The snakes spit venom in the nurses mouths and their necks melt as the poison works its way down their throats.

Their heads, too heavy to be supported by rotting flesh, snap off and fall to the floor, splashing up venom, phlegm, and a thick blood paste in the process. You vomit harder than you ever have in your life. Blood pours out of your throat and nose. You heave so hard you feel like your innards are crushing themselves, grinding your organs to powder.

In an effort to stop the continuous onslaught of snakes, you grab your infant son and smash him against a metal rod soldered onto the sides of the hospital gurney. Your head spins. Your temples throb. You black out. You awaken to the sound of your wife screaming. Everything comes back into focus. You see your wife screaming. You see nurses and hospital security start to surround you.

The room is pristine.
No snakes.
No venom.
No chaos.
No carnage.

At gun point you are asked to put your hands over your head. Despite being incredibly groggy and equally confused you attempt to comply but as you reach for the sky your right arm feels heavier than your left. You glance down and your heart sinks. You're holding your son's lifeless, mangled corpse. Your wife screams for the guards to "fucking shoot his dick off". They miss. You get it in the face. Game Over.

This snack disappointing. Imagine you took a chocolate tube and filled it with toothpaste and then ate it. Yup, it sucks.

Fuck.

Cadbury Popping Mini Eggs

Sometimes you just want to eat food that sucks. Food that will fucking make you detest yourself. The pain of eating bullshit pooled with the ache of fucking hating yourself is incredibly satisfying in a getting strangled while fucking kind of way. So when I saw these fucking little morsels of gobbledygook I knew that the pastels and cute little logos were covering up the food of pure loathing.

I love candy eggs. They’re delicious and tiny enough that when compared to my testies I look like a fucking Frost Giant (Conan reference! it also implies that I am pasty in the junk: fact!). The crunchy candy shell, the firm, delicious milk chocolate hibernates beneath its exoskeleton, everything’s lined up to drain you of your spinal fluid and leave you a limp, sloppy, zombie of a man. It’s such a delicate combination and the fucking key elements are placed so precariously that fucking with it’s components will cause everything to come crashing down on your fucking skull leaving brain matter and skull crumbs all over the new button-down shirt your parents bought you with the hopes that you would land this job at the post-office and move the fuck out of their house. You just hope you get it so you can fashion yourself after Charles Bukowski and smoke hash, drink wine, and get laid by all sorts of subway-stop trannys. But you won’t be able to because your skull is split wide fucking open and everyone can see your porno dreams about horses and hairy backed women from the turn of the century. You have very specific tastes and I would salute you for it except that your face is a pile of pulp, you bastard.

While this combination is so specific and constantly on the verge of toppling over and maiming and/or flattening others, the fucking engineers at Cadbury have found out how to stack that motherfucker even closer to God without having it come down around their ears.

The addition of imitation Pop-Rocks to the hard candy shell is a stroke of genius. You kind of don’t notice the popping at first because the rocks are embedded in the candy so it basically has to dissolve in your mouth before the rocks are exposed and send your tongue and gums on a fucking magical journey. It’s sneaky and at first I didn’t realize that anything was happening so I swallowed the candy and then it went of like a crate of dynamite that I threw right into the fucking sun. What a fucking stupid combination. It's so incredibly pointless and unnecessarily aggravating but it feels so fucking incredible to eat chocolate and have your throat feel like it's being scraped with the back of a claw hammer.

It’s subtle, like the first time you get a foot job. You’re like I’m not really into having any foot play hooked up on my wiwi and then next second you’re the fucking mayor of Orgasmville. You sit back in your throne in city hall, proudly wearing the Orgasmville sash around your chunky torso like a caveman wears animal pelts or like my Uncle Henry wore little boys before they sent him off on his iron vacation.

These eggs will impress.

Chocolate and Sprinkle Covered Waffle on a Stick

This weekend Vinny (who has yet to post) and I went to Quebec City with out significant others for all sorts of “close to Euro” fuckery. Everyone who isn’t me decided it would be a great idea to slide down a giant slope of ice at 70 km/h on a toboggan made before I had dick hair. Reluctantly I agreed.

So we’re in the booth where you procure the tickets when we discovered a snack so simple and glorious it never even crossed my mind to hook this up at home. I proudly present to you: Waffle on a Stick.

They had a few diverse types of this welfare luxury but I opted for Chocolate Covered with Springles (they meant sprinkles).

This behemoth looks like a giant chocolate cock covered in delicious rainbow coloured dick warts. This is supernatural.

It’s not often that I’ll eat something and just know that I’m in the presence of fucking greatness. I feel for this snack what I can only assume socio-political nerds feel about Zinn or Chomsky lectures. The key difference is that waffles on sticks will give me the runs but I don’t think Howard Zinn will (unless I ask him nicely).

Here’s the scenario:

-You’re penniless and wholly destitute.

-You have amassed ghastly drug habits.

-You are disheartened and despondent passed any and all rationalization.

-You have dug yourself a hole so unfathomably vast that you believe there is no way you will be able to claw yourself out.

-You have agreed to be hunted with the caveat that if you survive you will be remunerated with a lump sum of 750,000$.

-You are supplied with a canteen, water purification tablets, a serrated edged blade, and four pairs of dry white cotton socks, as well as the clothes on your back.

Without realising that you would be heading out to the woods right away you chose to wear your red sweatpants. Mistake number 1.

Additionally you wore a lime green mesh baseball cap with the words “Got a Bad ‘Tude” handsomely silk-screened to the front of it. Mistake number 2.

You know nothing about the woods and even less about getting shot at by professional hunters. Mistake number 3.

Inside of five minutes you get shot and die. You get no money and they leave your corpse in the woods to be defiled and ravaged by wild dogs.

The previous scenario is exactly like eating a chocolate and sprinkle covered waffle on a stick. You can’t fucking win! This ogre will constantly best you!

Also I like your red sweatpants.

Candy Cane Hershey's Kisses

I've had these things sitting in my fridge since Christmas and for some reason kept putting off eating them until now. I like Kisses well enough I guess but I wasn't expecting to have my taste buds put in some sort of cross-face leg lock and get the pubic hair of deliciousness rubbed all up against my cheeks and tongue.

First off, this is white chocolate and white chocolate unlike white lovers is the greatest chocolate a man can have. The reason that joke works is because typically black dudes have giant hogs. This one time back at my old place, Hans (who's black) thought it wise to show me and Vinny the base of his shaft. It was like a baby's arm. His pecker will wreck your box. You will beg him for mercy. He'll stick his wiener where your lunch goes (all in your guts).

Secondly, and I know the picture doesn't do it justice, there are little fragments of candy cane peppered throughout the chocolate to cool your mouth and melt your face simultaneously.

This is a genius combination. As a staunch believer in not mixing chocolate with anything ever (with exception of hot peppers, no joke) this was a surprising delight. It's like the first time you get pooped on. You're like oh there's no way this is going to end well, but if this is only way I can lay on my back and stare up into the chasm of your vagina then fuck it, I'm in. Release your waste as need be. I need to see your cooter, even if it means taking a load on the neck and chest. And the poop poop splashes down on you and it's warm and squishy. And you're in love and you cum right away. And it's great.

This candy is like having someone make poop on you while chewing gum and then cuming on your stomach hairs. FYI, ejaculate, like hot peppers, is not water soluble. You just need to get some steel wool and an emery board and just file it down and scrub until you're fucking bleeding like Mick Foley.

I like to eat candies.

Cadbury Cream Egg

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Little Debbie Chocolate Chip Creme Pies

I would like to preface this entire review by stating my penchant for all things Little Debbie. They can do no wrong. From the fox on the box to the sweets that can’t be beat: Little Debbie is and forever will be What’s Up.
Example- Little Debbie: That’s What’s Up.

The first time I fell in love with Little Debbie was after sneaking into an ex-girlfriends’ house while she was away and stealing a box full of these and then peeing in her pool (from the deck). I walked home eating the entire thing, completely fucking ashamed that I, as an avid snack lover, had not yet sampled what I have since deemed to be the greatest cookie related snack that has ever existed.

I don’t have these very often because unlike Coke I worry that it won’t have the same magic if I scarf that shit down everyday. It’s like butt play. Putting your wiener in a girl’s pooper is fucking incredible but it’s even more incredible when it happens out of the blue or only on Friday nights after Battlestar Gallactica. If you had it everyday you would take it for granted and get used to your axe handle smelling like inside of a bathhouse.

The point is, these are fucking magic and I want to make sure it stays magic for as long as I’m able to eat them (i.e. until adult-onset diabetes).

This snack is basically two cookies with a cream filling except that the cookies are so incredibly soft they stop becoming cookies and become cakes. It’s like they fucking decompose and evolve at the same time. Darwin’s probably rolling over in his grave but when he gets to his stomach his boner is so huge it props him up and his bony ass bobs in the air.

Here’s how clouds are made:
All air has water in it but near the ground it’s a fucking pussy and hides out in the form of some shit called water vapor. Warm air is like a boner. When air gets warm it gets fucking horny as shit and expands and then it cools down. The thing is that cool air can’t hold in the water vapor the same way that the warm air does (because it’s a fucking baby) so some of the fucking vapor condenses onto the little baby pieces of dust that just sort of dick around in the air and then they fuck and make little babies (i.e. tiny droplets). When all these droplets get liquored up and organize a big dirty gang-bang, that’s called a cloud.

Imagine that the droplets were replaced by petting zoos, getting a promotion you don’t deserve, and nailing your girlfriend and her sister in a fucking mind-blowing three-way. Now imagine that they then formed a cloud and then you ate the cloud. Well that’s exactly what a Little Debbie Chocolate Chip Creme Pie is like.

Go buy it now. And then have a three-way with girlfriend and her sister or your sister and her friend.

Big Chocolate Carl.

Big Chocolate Carl sounds like an old pr0n. I think its supposed to be curl but they have that mustachioed mascot dude so I call them carls. It makes them taste better. and as a double added bonus the name Carl makes me think of aqua teen hunger force(south bronx paradise baby). carls in general rule, these are no exception. its a tiny bag and there are only liky 10-12 in there but that is good. forced portion control! if not i would end up eating a million of these. plus peep the ill frog mascot on the package.
so these are chocolate carls covered in dark chocolate. fuck milk chocolate. i think ill only fuck with milk chocolate if its like a hersheys kiss or something. a carl is a crispy/crunchy puff snack. like a cheese doodle but not like a cheese doodle at all(ha!) i think actually im gonna cop these at lunch time for a round 2.

on a Sabbath scale i give these a rating of "Children of the Grave".