Nurse the Hate: Hate the Candy Bar

I walked into the Starbucks intent on securing a trenta unsweetened iced green tea, as this is what I drink in the summer.  I like the routine at Starbucks as I stand there waiting for everyone else to get their Dairy Queen desserts that are masked as coffee.  Young women especially seem to enjoy Starbucks as some sort of secret indulgence, as if a beverage with the words “caramel” and “mocha” doesn’t have an inherent payback.    No matter.  I’m just a guy spending $3.00 on iced tea.  I'm in no position to judge.

Behind me a conversation was in midstream.  “…and that’s why she moved from Texas, because The Devil is there.”  The other woman she was speaking to nodded knowingly, as if it wasn’t odd to speak of the CEO of Evil as having a Texas mailing address.  Now, this woman spoke with great confidence, so maybe she knew something about Lucifer and his domestic habits.  The other woman certainly seemed to buy in.  "Yes, of course, The Devil lives outside of Houston.  He's got a nice little place with an in ground pool and three car garage..."  I never pictured The Devil living in Texas, as my money would be handily on Florida.  Just like with a carton of juice, all the sediment in the United States flows to the bottom.  In this case, that is Florida.   The muck is always on the bottom.  You ever been to South Beach?  Every douche, hustler, queen, and tweaked up cracker migrates there like id driven birds.  The Devil likes techno, bottle service, and bad restaurant service.  Florida is his kind of joint.   

It’s weird when you hear just a snippet of a conversation not intended for your ears.  I mean, who knows if this woman was talking about the actual devil, or if it was a nickname for some sort of nemesis like an unlikeable roommate, father-in-law, or unrelenting suitor?  I don’t even know for sure if she said “devil”.  Maybe she said something normal and I misunderstood.  There is such a short window to nose in there as an outsider and say "Excuse me???  What did you say?".  One time I could swear I heard some guy ask some other guy what kind of candy bar he would shove up his ass …if he had to choose of course.  I didn’t hear the answer, but the question has plagued me for years.  Why would a man ask another man this question?  Sheer morbid curiosity?  It is sort of a fascinating question.  The last thing you would want to have happen is to be put in that situation, panic, and say "Snickers!".  It needs to be thought through.  Preparation is a key to life.  It would be tempting to say “Twix”, but I think that while that is a thin candy bar, the fact there are two individual bars and these would remain rather rigid with that cookie interior, it would be a bad choice.  The last thing anyone wants is a Twix floating around in their large intestine.     

Butterfinger, or its more elusive cousin Fifth Avenue, both offer guaranteed rough edges, and that’s bad news.  I think for this particular question it wouldn’t be fair to cop out with something like Junior Mints or a Rollo, unless of course they were inserted into your ass with a rawhide mallet.  That would sort of even out the unpleasantness of the entire endeavor back to being on par with an entire candy bar.  The "mallet factor" would negate any positive of the small size of the Junior Mints I think.  Don’t even think about Starburst or Mike N Ikes.  Those aren’t even close to candy bars.  The question was “what candy bar”.  I have a feeling that if one found oneself in the predicament of having to choose what kind of candy bar was going to be shoved somewhere one had no interest in it being shoved, a spirited debate on what constitutes a candy bar would not be allowed.

This I know.  The worst without question would be a Zagnut.  A dry rough edged husk, it would take a team of medical personnel or very physically strong specialists in this area to get that thing inserted.  That toasted coconut would be very unpleasant, especially once you started struggling to get away, as would be the natural inclination.  Fight or flight.  It’s how we are programmed.  Someone starts shoving a Zagnut in there; it’s going to be “flight mode” every single time.

I think the way to go would be Three Musketeers.  It’s bigger than ideal, but I think that creamy nougat is going to have some give.  Remember, it’s got to come back out at some point, so I think the “nougat factor” is a big step to relative comfort in this horrible theoretical scenario.  The last thing anyone wants is a Baby Ruth chock full o’ nuts traveling in both directions.  Don't even allow the thought of a Chunky to drift into your mind.  That’s a tough go.

I'm sorry.  I got off topic.  So, as I was saying, I overheard this conversation about The Devil in Starbucks…