Friday, July 10, 2009

The Mystical Power Of Mint Oreos

I pull open the easy-open-tab on the top of the package, and it reveals three seductive rows of crisp and creamy black and green cookies. I crack open a fresh (not sour!) bottle of milk, and pour out a frothy glass. I slink over to the couch, turn on Larry King Live, and get to work on my new best friend.

Mint Oreo cookies. They put Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies to shame. With each new cookie comes a stronger desire to consume more, and as I take in the power of their green phosphorescence, I ponder my abilities to say up all night creating a charcoal mural on my living room wall.

A week ago, I would have scoffed. A week ago, I was on a 24-hour raw food diet, where "soup" was a cold puree of celery, carrots, and pears, and my body was a temple. A week ago, I was on my way to physical Nirvana by purging the impurities of my body and pooping every two hours.

But not now.

Now is the time to indulge in the power of packaged delights. It is the time to say "Who cares if I eat half a sleeve of Oreos for breakfast? I mean, really, I am an adult."

I sip my home brewed coffee and I consider my slight tummy ache. I remember what it felt like to be a well-oiled machine, living off mangoes and swearing off anything that ever had feathers or fur. I remember the feeling of cleaning out my gut, an homage to the current state of my hate for the colon, and I internally remark upon the fact that, until my mother arrived to help me clean my biohazard apartment, mold was growing in my mini food processor.

Hello, Mint Oreos. You make me fall in love with you. You MAKE ME FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU. You little assholes. It's OK, you were designed that way. I wake up in the middle of the night, and as I lie in bed considering my options, I remember that half of cookie sleeve #3 is still available for consumption. But, damn it, I am out of milk. I guess I will have to just drink water and forgo dunking.

M-I-N-T-Y goodness. You are such a flirt. You toy with my tummy, leading me to believe that I will at some point feel full. But all I am left with is a pasty bloat, perhaps brought on by yellow dye #5 and blue dye #1. Don't try to fool me with your frosty green appearance. You are FAKE, Mint Oreos, fake like my bright blond hair.

But, I don't care. I love you just the same. You are my cookie, heck, our Nation's cookie. You are sickly addictive - that is your mystical power. Just like cigarettes and alcohol, you draw in kiddies and old farts alike, and you make us feel that we are your best friend. We believe that you are there for us - for breakfast, lunch, and midnight snack, if we need you.

But when all three of your sleeves are gone, well, it's like a bad break-up. I can mourn your loss, or I can seek you out again at the corner market. I can start this whole charade over, beginning with the promising appeal of sliding back your easy-open-tab on top...

Mint Oreos.

You Assholes.

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