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Wednesday, December 3, 2003
The bigotry that is Sour Jacks.
Sour Patch Kids were Gods. They stood out to moviegoers and candy fanaticals like a romanticism that was as beautiful as a rose, and smelt as great as love. But this was soon ripped from our amatory hands like a jarring effigy, a nice doll to do a tango dance of taste with. When we went to our movies, Sour Patch Kids were there. When we went to school and learned the inanity that is education, Sour Patch Kids were there. And when we were going to the bathroom, Sour Patch Kids were there, sanitizing our unsanitary condition.
And now Sour Patch Kids lies lone on the ground, souring and rotten like mangled dreams. For in the foray has come a contender, a very sissy one. It comes in the name of Sour Jacks, and it comes in a package in form with that of the aforementioned Gods named Sour Patch Kids. It intends to mar them from our hands and taste buds, like a fluent anti-Christ gone Christal. And will you, you impudent moron, will you allow this to happen? For it has already begun, like a furious bigotry. And if you allow it to happen, then you yourself are as a bigot as them all for following it.
I will not let this happen. Sour Patch Kids are my rose, and a rose smells sweet. And Sour Jacks are a rehabilitated group of clamoring hippies. And Sour Patch Kids themselves taste eons better than Sour Jacks.
Screw you Sour Jacks.
Screw you to screwy screwing screws where screwers screw their screws.
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