sensation

So here we are.

Back when York and Mounds and Almond Joy were owned by a company named Peter Paul that used to sponsor A Charlie Brown Christmas, there was an infamous ad campaign for York Peppermint Patties. I shall now borrow heavily from it to tell the tale of my relationship with a bag of half-price Christmas candy.

When I bite into a York Peppermint Patty, I get the sensation that arctic winds are blowing through my hair.

When I bite into a second York Peppermint Patty, I get the sensation that my tongue is a happy snowman telling all the kids to follow him in a sweet sugar parade.

When I bite into a third York Peppermint Patty even before I have fully swallowed the second York Peppermint Patty, I get the sensation that I am ice skating on a pond of joy, where there are no crowds and the hot chocolate is free.

When I bite into a fourth York Peppermint Patty, I get the sensation that I am making out with Jack Frost in the back seat of his dad’s Ford Pinto after curfew on a school night. 

When I bite into a fifth and sixth York Peppermint Patty, I get the sensation of an icy chill down my spine telling me that I should read the calorie count on the back of the bag.

When I bite into a seventh, eighth and ninth York Peppermint Patty, I get the sensation that I am giving summer bikinis the finger. Also that I am cold.

When I bite into a tenth, eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth York Peppermint Patty, I get the sensation that I am a naughty, naughty Eskimo being watched by a polar bear.

When I bite into a fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth York Peppermint Patty, I get the sensation that I am dancing naked at the top of Mount Everest, daring the sherpas to just say it, say that I need to lose weight right before I pass out from lack of oxygen into a fluffy pile of snow, impaling myself on one of the many flags left up there.

And when I bite into that last York Peppermint Patty in the bag, I get the sensation of Santa slapping me in the face with his cold, bare hand before he shoves me out into the dark, frigid North Pole night. Nothing knocks you off the “nice” list like gluttony, even if it is minty and covered in rich dark chocolate.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.