Peep Abuse. Are you guilty? I am.
Pre-born Peeps that stay wrapped intact within their primordial translucent gaud of aloof cellophanic undisturbability are so asking for it. Take a look.
On the right, begging for defamation, mutilation and even annihilation under a squishing finger and iron grip, are the pitifully world-unhardened Peeps, metaphysical cousins to first 2 of the 3 Little Pigs (straw and sticks), taunting us as if to say: “Not by the sugar on my soft bellybutton!”
On the left, weighing in at a buff 8 grams, well-oxygenated now for weeks after their post-placental cellophonic birthing-rupture, and thoroughly hardened to the vicarious travesties that ever-swirl throughout this cruel, open-aired world of ours, are the Peeps Apparent, metaphysical cousins to the 3rd Little Pig (bricks), standing stalwart as if to say to their neighboring still-sheathed pink punk uninitiates: “There are worse things out here than vampires. Like what? Like me.“
Of course, some of the purple Peeps are missing. It happens. Birth, that start of the journey to fulfill one’s destiny, does have its risks. Some think that stale Peeps taste better. Blame the Purple Peeper Eaters. But if these exoskeletonically-enhanced Peeps avoid such cultish consumers, they are likely to end up in the rubbish, with a subsequent trip to the landfill, where, given their near ever-preserving potassium sorbate and carnauba wax composition, they will likely accompany plastic Pepsi and Coke bottles upon a journey into pseudo-immortality.
Peep Abuse. It is actually pretty kinky. (Hint: the soft ones make better sex toys.)
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