A Candy Store Owner Addresses A Lifeboat

By: John Merriman

Folks, we’ve been stranded on this lifeboat with no food and little water for a good week now, and it’s come to my attention that some of you doubt my qualifications as self-appointed leader. Okay, all of you do. Well, let me just say that considering I own and manage a store that sells candy, I refuse to accept your vote of no confidence.

You see, the candy business is extremely cutthroat. It’s a take-no-prisoners, eat-or-be-eaten industry that hardens you into a sturdy block of street-smart chocolate, so to speak, and fully prepares you for any situation, no matter how delicious.

Excuse me, I meant to say vicious. As vicious as the hungry school of sharks I capably led us away from yesterday, even though we had to sacrifice Susan’s left arm, right leg, and most of her head to do so. I still maintain she was basically dead, despite her protests to the contrary. But rest assured, your well-being has been and will be my first priority, second only to eating you.

What? No, I said “greeting” you! As in getting to know you! Yes, I know that doesn’t make much sense, but we’re stranded in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. People in this situation will start saying crazy things.

In fact, Robert said something pretty nonsensical yesterday. When he suddenly turned into a giant purple M&M, I realized I was hallucinating because they don’t make M&Ms in that color. But I’m sure that giant, correctly colored M&Ms do exist, because that would be so amazingly good to eat right now. Robert disagrees with me, but I think he’s been drinking too much seawater. Come on, Robert! Get real.

Anyway, back to my leadership ability. I once had to decide whether to primarily restock my store with bunny Peeps or just regular Peeps, and in so doing — okay, Robert, before I continue, I have to ask, are you sure you’re not a giant M&M? Because I’m looking at your thin candy shell right now and — fine, fine, forget it! As much as I love M&Ms, they’re not my favorite candy anyway. That would be Snickers, a giant bar of which has suddenly appeared and replaced Liz.

Oh, that is you, Liz. I apologize. Yes, you’re right — how could you be a giant talking Snickers bar? I don’t remember any on the cruise ship, so I don’t see how one could have gotten on this lifeboat. See, I can reason! Despite the severe malnutrition ravaging my body, my cognitive functions are still working perfectly. Let me at least press hard onto your scrumptious milk chocolate surface. If no gooey caramel comes out, then I’ll know you’re telling the truth.

Paul, since when did your arms become giant Twizzlers? Please, stop tempting me by wrapping them around my hands! I won’t hurt Liz, I promise. But I will lick your juicy Twizzler-arms. And Mike, if you could stop trying to pin me down and punch me in the face, that’d be great. I guarantee you’ll be the world’s worst-tasting Milk Dud if you have my blood all over you.

All right, look — think whatever you want about my ability to lead. But can I help it if you’ve all turned into enormous pieces of mouthwatering candy? And also that we’re stranded in a vast ocean of high fructose corn syrup? Don’t you see? Everything is candy now. The whole world has become my store to run, beginning with this lifeboat! And you sweets will now do what I say! Michelle, I command you to get rid of that silly plastic wrapping and expose your Jolly Rancher body for me to suck on indefinitely! Do it or I’ll use this signal mirror to redirect the sun’s rays and melt all of you! Do you hear me?! MELT YOU ALL!!!



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