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Dispatches from the Highlands
$4.20 Cents
Opinion
How dare you wreck Rice Krispies Treats
By Rutherford Jenkins To the sniveling cumberworld who made Rice Krispies treats with that store bought jar of marshmallow cream, I say, how dare you good sir, how dare you ? ese krispy bars aren’t gooey sticky -- they are gelatinous oozing puscles undeserving of human consumption. ey are undeserving of
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OTHER HEADLINES Construction commences on Cinnamon Toast Crunch tower Daryl vows to build until the Nutella runs dry pg 150 Turn your closet into an extra shitter in 2 easy steps pg 157 City reverses temporary ban on public muumuu’s pg 166 Not too late to admit you're not a brain surgeon pg 171 **BROUGHT TO YOU by OAK FAMILY BUTTERESS** “Churned Slowly to the Sound of Crickets.” Surely, you intend to set ablaze this heap of rank guano you call dessert , before I turn it to lubbering shite with my plumb hatchet. Your arsemongering will not go unknownst--never again may you plague our lunch room with your Rice Krisp- ies excreta nor any other baked ordure you may ever muster. consumption by even the vilest of creatures on this wretched earth, mind you, and you’ve brought them into our place of employ? You’ve bescumbed us all, you fawning milksop! You nihilist ninnyhammer! You plucky peasant of miserable malfeasance! I spit at your feet, I throw rice at your mother. May you pay for such treason, may your jowls become aromatic as buttocks--and let the taste of this fowl toxicity forever haunt your restless nights as real , monstrous marsh- mallows chase you through endless nightmares. How, how could you have forgotten that those jars of weird goo exist purely for the purpose of eating spoonful a er spoonful of synthetic marshmallowy goodness until we are vomiting facedown in a sugar coma? How dare you break so far from such utilitarian balance? Did it not occur to you this was one thing-- one thing in this godforsaken age --upon which we can all agree? You swinging sot of smellfungus! Begone , you sugar-spiting bastard, you bakery bu oon, you patisserie-patronizing puissance. You coprophagic wank of a fopdoodle. You fusty scobberlotcher of sweets, you whi -whaing stamp-crab of society; my contempt resounds between the churning of my disappointed digestion.
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