I have a lot of collections. Most I understand. Bears. Penguins. Laser-guided guard dogs. Then there are the Peeps. I don't really like to collect food. However, that being said, I have packages of Peeps loitering all around my house.
My husband says he eats them. I have seen no proof. A couple of weeks ago, I threw away a package of black cat Peeps that had to be 10 years old. I know some people treasure a Peep aged to perfection, but at my house they just gather dust bunnies.
I don't eat Peeps.
I know I currently have a set of yellow Peep bunnies in my living room, a package of pumpkins and ghosts in a cabinet, and somewhere in my house lurks the most heinous of all food items: the blue Peep. Well, the Peep isn't so much heinous but the blue... just picture a shudder of revulsion.
Sure I love a good marketing campaign. I'm all for all the cute Peep novelty trinketry. I own some and enjoy it as well. But I'm OK with being a fair-weather fan. I'm content enjoying the fruits with out all of that labor stuff. I can support the makers of Peeps without having sugar-coated marshmallow animals in my house.
Now is when you cue the picture of a blow-torch wielding Peep exterminator. See, that's how horrible I am. I have all the ammo to jump on the Peep photo scenario band wagon and I can't even bring myself to release the sticky critters from their cellophane confines.
Every year I know I will get new Peeps around Easter and Halloween. And I know each year I will set them aside to join the ranks of others waiting in nervous anticipation for my husband to consume them. Maybe they would rest a little easier if they knew there was no fear of that.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment