Dead Caterpillar

The universe is a vast cosmic conspiracy ...

Watching my favorite sitcom or watching my cat trapped in the television cabinet …

So I did both!

In Lynchburg, Rivermont Avenue. Thursday, July 14th at 7:55 am.

Blade, vampire hunter. Yes.

Dog:

“HOME? OMG! YOU’RE HOME! HOME! OKAY! HI! HI! HELLO! HOW ARE YOU?! OMG! GOOD TO SEE YOU! PLAY? FUN!? LET’S PLAY! TREAT! TREAT? PLEASE—PLEASE—PLEASE—PLEASE. TREAT—TREAT! OKAY. WALK! WALK? WALK! WALK! PLEASE! PLEASE—PLEASE—PLEASE? FOOD? TRICK? I DO TRICK. I TRICK. TELL ME, I DO TRICK. CALL? I COME—REAL FAST! WATCH! FOOD? I DO TRICK! WALK? RUN? RUN OR WALK? BOTH! PLAY! PLAY! PLAY! PLAY! FUN! FUN! FUN! OMG! I THINK I’M GOING TO POOP MYSELF! ”

 

 

 

Cat:

“Home already? Alright, well … did you check my food bowl on the way in? My water bowl seemed a bit low … Might want to get on that. It’s very concerning. Also, the next time you are out shopping, make sure to buy the fine grain rather than the large grain litter. I find the fine grain softer on the paws. And do pick up a few cans of Fancy Feast Gourmet while you’re out, not the kind with shrimp but the kind with the savory little tuna bits. I’d like that. No big deal if you’re not going out anytime soon, whenever you get around to it of course, but preferably now. Alright, well, see you around. Nice chat we just had here. Good talk. And don’t forget fine grain not large grain litter. The large grain is rough on the skin and gets stuck between my claws. It vexes me. Thanks.”

Eternally alone, as always, but not lonely and not gloomy, strangely happy, in fact, hopeful and …

I always know beforehand if the day is going to be good or bad. In the morning, if I get the milk to cereal ratio right, I know it’s going to be a good day. Overall I’d say the good days outweigh the bad. I’m considerably happy.

I really ought to leave my comfort zone, that much is certain. But as I absolutely refuse to leave my computer chair, the only way I see that happening is if someone places a decapitated baby chimp on my lap.

What of my ambition, you ask?

I still have my ambition. It’s on the back burner, along with shaving, flossing and getting up before noon. Just kidding really. I have work, which forces me up early. I WORK, which proves — almost irrefutably — that I am an industrious, upstanding and virtuous citizen, even excused — on occasion — to indulge in lavish spending sprees and excessive weekend debaucheries. I WORK, it’s okay everyone. Five days a week, at a real job, that pays real money …

And everyone knows that I am a day dreamer there, at work. Say something to me and I “put it in the mental queue.” What you said will register, eventually. My mind will process it, after I process the thoughts at the front of my mental queue. In some cultures and societies, they call that being slow. I prefer the term deeply contemplative. I can’t help it! There is so much to think about, my queue is overflowing. There is just so much to think about!

Airplanes, for starters. Horses, bombs, trees, Elvis Presley, God, pens, the fundamental nature of reality, dinosaurs—I love to think about the dinosaurs. I’m a day dreamer! I record my thoughts on paper, even while working. I take notes on life. I observe things. Odd I never could bring myself to take notes in the classroom, yet I impulsively take notes outside the classroom. I take notes on life.

“It’s a writer thing,” I tell my co-workers, and they look at me queer. (Bluecollars! Cretins, all of them!)

“Chris, your problem is you don’t think,” a most venerable friend once told me, years ago, after discovering I had left a cigar burning on his kitchen countertop for hours.

That sort of struck me when he said that, in regard to something purely trivial, but it was clearly not a trivial remark, judging from the tone he used. I thought for a long time that was plausible, that I didn’t think as much as other people did. Contemplating that in the years since, meditating on it, ruminating, I had an epiphany one day.

“My problem isn’t that I don’t think, my problem is that I think too much!”

It explains why I can stare at a wall for hours and be perfectly content, absorbed in pure conscience. But if you asked me later what color the wall was, I’d be darned!

I’m mentally distracted, oblivious to my immediate physical surroundings, always elsewhere. When I’m here, I’m there and when I’m there, I’m back here. But I’m at least somewhere. I’m always somewhere.

Not slow, deeply contemplative.

Everyone acts like they’ve lived before, but I haven’t! It’s all new to me. That’s it! I’m not over the novelty of life yet. I need time to think and soak it all in. It’s all very interesting.

I have long suspected that Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups have gotten smaller. As a wee-lad, it took as much as three whole bites to finish a cup. Now one bite feels all too natural, and I really have to go out of my way to experience a Reese’s Cup in two bites. To be fair I got bigger and that might account for their getting smaller.

Still I’ve never been suspicious of other popular chocolate brands like Snickers or Hershey’s, only Reese’s. It’s really been a longstanding mystery. One I contemplate every time I finish a pack of peanut butter cups. Somehow I always feel there should be more in there.

Last night, I decided to investigate the matter of the mysteriously shrinking peanut butter cups. Like anyone with a degree in journalism would do, I Googled it. What I found was both horrifying and shocking. In a word … horri-shocking.

Turns out the nefarious Hershey Foods Corporation ^[1] has been duping consumers for years. The cup size has changed, yet we’re paying the same price.

The Evidence

Exhibit A.

The above image is of a Reese’s wrapper purchased in 2003. Note the old Reese’s tagline, “There’s No Wrong Way To Eat A Reese’s.” Also note, utilizing my advanced image manipulation skills, I’ve circled the net weight in ounces and grams.

Exhibit B.

The above image is of a Reese’s wrapper purchased more recently, featuring the new orange swirl design and the current tagline “Get Lost In A Reese’s.”

If you compare the net weight with the wrapper from 03, you’ll see that there’s a three gram difference. Less carbs, less fat and less protein. 20 calories less.

So now you know, the peanut butter cups are smaller. As if Mini Reese’s and Reese’s Pieces weren’t insulting enough. Soon the same wisecrack that came up with the “fun” size will have the idea of selling powdered Reese’s. But we’re Americans I say, not Chinamen. Sell us bigger things, diametrically proportionate to our waistlines.

In case I win a Pulitzer for this investigative piece, I’d like to cover all my ground here and attribute the images. I found the images via Google on the website of a candy enthusiast who, for whatever reason, has scanned in the wrappers of every candy he has eaten in the last ten years. He also has a blog about candy wrappers. Not about candy, exclusively candy wrappers. I guess there’s a niche for everything these days.

1/27/12 Update – It looks like I spoke to soon.

1. ^[1] In recent years, the Hershey Foods Corporation was renamed to The Hershey Company which some clever lawyers and brand marketers deemed less nefarious-sounding. ↩

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