Okay, so it started innocently enough. A friend linked me to a gourmet lollipop site. This is the friend who’s also sending me some kind of witchcraft that’s apparently a sandwich spread MADE FROM COOKIES. So she’s totally the good kind of friend! We got to talking about the particular lollipops in question.
When I say “gourmet lollipops,” I mean that they make their own lollipops and feature flavours like Habañero Tequila, Chai, Maple Bacon (about which I will speak in a moment) and, my personal favourite name, the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster.
Maple Bacon lollies. The description is something about being the first ever to make a “bacon-based” maple bacon lollipop, which I guess is the same thing movies mean when they say “based on a true story,” because there’s no actual bacon in them. In fact, it’s both kosher *and* vegan — two things I’m pretty sure real bacon can’t be. Then that same friend — the “I’m sending you spreadable cookies” friend — pointed out that the picture chosen to represent the fake-bacon monstrosity pop was a lasciviously posed woman being far too friendly with a bacon lollipop.
Turns out that the company is going to be changing all their lollipops pictures over to pictures chicks really enjoying these lollipops. Aside from the whole “Lolita” aspect, which is problematic enough from a feminist perspective — but this is not a thinky blog, so don’t look to me for a sociological breakdown — there’s apparently a dark side to candy, guys.
I don’t know how to put this, especially since my mother occasionally reads this blog, but there’s a whole candy-coated perversion out there. Lollipops are not the innocent candies of youth anymore. I don’t think I’ll ever buy another lollipop again.
Did you know that there are people who will apparently buy lollipops that have been entirely too close to someone’s netherbits for anyone’s comfort? (And isn’t that just begging for a yeast infection? And… and… I don’t even want to think about this.)
Since I invented shark rockets to save NASA, I figured someone might need some proof that I’m not inventing hootiepops. So, garnering every bit of dignity I have ever had and immediately shredding it, I googled. FOR YOU. That’s how much I love you people.
But I couldn’t click any of the links and I felt intensely nauseated — because holy cow, people, the THINGS that turn up! — and I hated all of humanity and this time I was reasonably certain it wasn’t my own insanity pushing me toward misanthropy.
Cooterpops, people. And that’s only the beginning. I’d tell you more, but my brain is threatening to leap out of my skull and strangle me if I even try to type — for the good of mankind — and, more importantly, I can’t think of witty euphemisms for the worst of them. It’s like humanity moved out of caves, put on some clothes and the following occurred:
Mankind: “We’ve invented the Internet!”
Internet: “Yay! Have vagina lollipops!”
Society: dies, screaming
Once you start selling herpes-flavoured crotchpops, society has broken down beyond repair. I’m going to go loot the liquor cabinet and try to forget. Feel free to do the same.