Category — gross stuff

I am participating in CurlyWurlyGurly’s theme posting challenge for June: The WORST candy in the history of mankind has to be Hershey’s Eat-More bar.

The Eat-More bar is supposedly a “chewy dark toffee, peanut and chocolate” bar. But what you never hear about is how these bars are made – well, I am spilling my guts to the world now. No more secrets! This is how Eat-More is manufactured:

1. Go to work at candy bar factory.
2. Pick up random bits of toffee, peanuts and chocolate on the bottom of your boots.
3. Scrape boots off into the Eat-More bucket at the end of your shift.
4. Grave-yard shift workers press it into bars and sell it.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s an economical and environmentally friendly method for making candy, but even if their boots are clean; do you really want to eat candy that was on the floor? This defies the five second rule and is, quite frankly, unhygienic.

I did try to get a picture of it, but it sensed my great dislike for it and would not allow me to take its photo. All the photos were blurred and in one, I’m fairly certain I saw a cluster of peanut bits shaped like Satan. But, I am not one to disappoint my readers and I discovered the Candy Blog has a very nice and in-focus photo of it.

Besides which, the candy looks rather like a shiny turd with peanut bits embedded in it and this is a G rated blog. Someone has to think of the children.

My father would tell me I am a cretin for not loving these bars. He claims they are tasty, they keep the mail moving (though how that much sugar translates into fibre I will never know) and the number one reason to love Eat-More bars (according to dear old Dad) is folding the wrapper like so:

I tried eating a little piece of the bar – after all I have broadened my horizons somewhat since I was 7 years old – but, my refined adult palate wholeheartedly rejected the candy and went running straight into the arms of a 3 Musketeers bar.

Dad, if you’re reading this, I’m sure it’s Mum’s faulty genes that dictate my hatred for this candy. I still like beer if that helps.

I learned today that I have limits regarding PDAs – and now I must share it with the Intarwebs and give you something to giggle about:

I went to my local DeSerres store today for some blank cards and clear bags for the fabulous stick people creations that are going to make me tens of dollars.

Anyway, I got the cards and the bags and was waiting for the #10 bus when I saw them – the couple that helped me find the outer limits of what I can just shrug off when it comes to PDA.

He was an older guy, probably early 50’s and she was mid to late 30’s – she’s wearing black high heels, black capris with a shiny belt and a black sweater. I watched him put his hand on the small of her back. Fine – that’s sort of sweet, but then! oh, then – he slipped his hand down the back of her pants and started visibly brushing his fingers across the crack of her bum! IN PUBLIC!!

She kept walking and he kept wiggling his hand down her pants and I couldn’t stop staring – which caused a few people to look at what I was looking at and then quickly avert their eyes.  I finally lost sight of them behind a Brinks truck and that broke the spell.

If Joe ever did that to me I’d tear his arm off and beat him with it. Arm around the waist? Fine. Holding hands? Sweet. Putting your hand down the back of my pants and grabbing my ass – NOT COOL.

Have I missed something? Is exploring your honey’s bum crack the latest way to say I love you?

What do you think? Am I a shriveled up old prude? What are your limits on PDA for yourself and other people?

Which is exactly what would happen if I were to make and consume this.

The alternate title for this post was:

“…And Ramble was nestled
all snug in her bed,
While visions of bacon rolls
danced in her head.”

But it was too long.