Peeps

In honor of Good Friday, I thought I’d smack down the most loathsome of Easter candy: Peeps. (Tunafish casserole placed a close second as a TIWTPITF today.)

When used in an art project, I can stomach the Peep (I particularly love Wynn Rankin’s Hobo Peep, above). As a tasty treat, not so much. I once dated a dude who left his Peeps out for months so the outside would get really crusty. Then he’d go at them, snapping off the brittle head and working his way down. (Draw your own conclusions about our short-lived relationship.) When I was a little girl down on the farm, I didn’t fancy watching a chicken with its head cut off. Looking at the headless Peep, however, I am filled with a sick satisfaction. These marshmassholes deserve a slow and painful death.

Peeps are too effing sweet, and I’m not just talking about taste. Their pleasingly plump shape is all style and no substance. Pop one down the hatch and instead of a taste explosion, you get the food equivalent of the limp handshake.

This fox wants to slink into the henhouse and lay waste to these yambags. I don’t want to eat them or create a diorama or art installation out of their treacly little bodies. Nope, I want to bust out a flamethrower, torch the whole cloying coop, and give new meaning to Kentucky Fried Chicken.

KFC, now that’s what I’m talking about. If only I could eat meat today…

(On the flip side, I can’t wait for the Cadbury Eggs to go on sale Monday. Mmm, fondant yolk.)

Check out this Peeptacular contest the Seattle Times ran a couple of years ago.

(photo: Wynn Rankin)