Graphic Accounts of Dates With Your Mother

So my mother was telling me today about how offended she was that they put chocolate in everything these days. I couldn't help but agree with her. I mean, how common is it to open up a newspaper and find reports of a congressman, actor, or businessperson getting himself or herself fitted with chocolate chips? Do they want us to eat them or something? It makes me a little bit sick inside. The other day, my friend picked me up so we could go to the beach and I noticed ants crawling all over the car.

"Where did those ants come from?" I asked.

"Oh," he replied, "they're probably just after the chocolate chips."

And then, when we got out of the car, I realized that my entire back and the seat of my pants were covered in melted chocolate. We are no longer on speaking terms. And by "we," I mean both me and my friend and me and chocolate.

But maybe, I think to myself, I shouldn't be so mad at chocolate. It's not chocolate's fault that every time you see a baseball game, at least one bat shatters because it's made out of chocolate. I bet that hurts the chocolate more than anyone. I mean, who is it that thinks it's a good idea to make bats out of a substance that is significantly softer than wood, melts, and attracts insects? And I certainly don't blame the chocolate when my morning newspaper becomes unreadable because the lightbulb in my house has melted. Why am I reading the morning newspaper at night time anyway?

And just as I think that I might like chocolate after all, y eft dde fger ets ad cat ctne tyng ths st. (translation: my left middle finger melts and I can't continue typing this post). But chocolate is not as bad Lindsay Lohan (pictured below)


in the next installment: the paucity of good walrus fetish porn sites.

-Eleanor