Gimme that sugar-encrusted baby chicken marshmallow!
Peeps are the marshmallow lining of Easter season. The barrage of religious nonsense is bearable when glorious neon-colored Peeps line the shelves of the seasonal aisle. I can nod my head and take it so long as I got Peeps to stuff in my mouth. A robed man named JESOS came back to life after three days, because he had to die, because his dad said so, because that’s the only way for people to not go to hell, because his dad can’t come up with a better plan?
I bite off a Peep head and luxuriate in its squishy texture upon my tongue. It is pure sugar encrusted with more sugar, and it zens me out. The JESOS story doesn’t make sense, but I got Peeps—I haven’t a care in the world. The rest of the Peep body goes down the hatch. I have all my Peeps in a row, ready for slaughter. Tell me more about this miracle zombie man—I’m practically high off this tray of cutie, widdle, corn syrup pillows.
They got uneven eyes. I love that for them.
I think I feel the spirit moving. It’s strong. Laughter bubbles up from within me. I am being slain in the spirit, thank you, JESOS.
On second thought, maybe it’s just sugar poisoning. But I will never forsake my Peeps. I’ll take them to the grave and beyond.