Best of 2022

If the Liberals Have Their Way, There Will Be No Bangable Chocolate at All

The liberals have finally done it. They’ve come for the Brown M&M, the candy so sexy Van Halen had to ban her from their dressing room. Lowered her heels, undermined her natural sex appeal, made her look not just dowdy but dour, like a Smith college sophomore who just switched her major to Women’s Studies. This, to one of the only mass-produced candies a healthy, heterosexual man would want to get a drink with, and one of even fewer you could get a drink with without having her blather all night about small-batch botanical gins.

Do liberals just not want us to have sex with commercially packaged chocolate at all? I’m sick of spending half the night trying to talk to some bit of sexy-ass Scharffen Berger about foreign films, only to go home alone at the end of the night. Or buying drinks all night for some slender, delicious piece of Ghirardelli, only to realize too late that she’s from San Francisco and used to volunteer in Nancy Pelosi’s office.

I mean, have you ever tried to get past first base with a Hershey’s Kiss? It’s beyond frustrating. But you try, and try again, and then you go home still horny, with all these little incriminating bits of aluminum foil that your wife asks suspicious questions about.

I’m too old to be out clubbing all night with some Mars Bar who’s into music I’ve never heard of. And the very idea of a menage á trois mousqetaires is morally repugnant. I just want some healthy, old-fashioned sex with a piece of industrial confectionary, like any normal, red-blooded American man.

I hope the liberals are happy, because every time I bite into a York Peppermint Patty, I get sued. That’s because it’s always a York Peppermint Patty I’ve hired to work in my office. But be fair. Why else would I hire a York Peppermint Patty as an office employee, except for sex? Not one of them has ever actually mastered Excel. So I’m getting sued, and none of my travel arrangements turn out to have been made, just for one stolen, fleeting moment of minty mountain-air freshness. And now I’m stuck at the airport, with every cheap candy bar in Terminal B flaunting herself at me.

It gets so bad that I drunk-dial that Hershey bar from college, the one I’d enjoy a quickie with between classes. She should be perfect: traditional, American, from rural Pennsylvania Trump country. But she’s so basic. Constantly talking about kids, so brittle she might snap if we change position. Just too square. No, I know not literally. I understand what a rectangle is, okay? I went to Wesleyan.

Is this what our country’s come to? Waking up hungover in some motel with a baker’s bar you can’t remember picking up, going through the whole sad charade pretending to put their number in your phone before you go home to the old prune tart. It’s all so bitter, like AOC talking about critical race theory. This is the part liberals don’t understand: it’s called “dessert” because you deserve it. And also because exact spelling isn’t really my thing. Why didn’t my office staff catch this? What did I hire them for?