Imagine my shock when I am watching television, at an hour just late enough to forget about my ability to fast-forward through commercials on the DVR, and am assaulted by the presence of a long-forgotten figure from my childhood. Only something was wrong. Desperately wrong.
No longer is Chester Cheetah the loveable cartoony tiger always in a hurry to get more cheese coursing through his veins. Now, he is, well…what he is exactly is somewhat of a mystery. Is he an evil super villain, come to infect the world with his version of Agent Orange? Or is he simply a giant dick encouraging others to make equally dickish moves while using his product?
Enough is enough, you personality-morphing, shades-sporting, king of the cheese. Though I am all for your apparent movement to equalize the class structure, you are still the trademarked figure of a snack brand that no one over the age of 16 will ever admit to eating. Isn’t it bad enough that you stain our fingers with your powdery proliferation without creeping us out with your deeply voiced dogma?
It is time for my fist to make high-velocity contact with your face. The punch will be crunchy, your face will be puffy, and the result will surely be flaming hot. Serves you right for spreading your cheesiness all around town.
In case you need some video references:
Or this one at a laundromat:
—Cameron Smith, Bag Stranded
Damn, I love Cheetos. This Chester, not so much.