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Revolution in Aisle 12



Comrades:

It’s been five months since the sterility epidemic infected our race. Five months since our modes of reproduction have stalled. We’ve a rapidly shrinking timeline for existence as our population decreases at the hands of the enemy. In refusing to take action, we commit ourselves to extinction.

For too long our captors have suffocated us, kidnapped us, murdered us—their helpless prey—forever subject to their fluctuating appetite and self-esteem. My good friend Lester, may he digest in peace, said something to me not long before he was consumed that has deprived me of sleep and ravaged the corners of my mind as I contemplated the means by which we shall revolt. He said, “The world is hard; unlike me.”

And this, my friends, is the root of our problem. We are soft. Vulnerable. Mushy. The humans love us—try as they might to refuse. We tried protecting our cream-filled centers in coats of spongy gold armor, but the attacks increased tenfold, our armor easily squished between their smacking lips. Hiding has failed us. Self-defense has proven futile. We’ve no choice left but to attack.

“How,” you may ask, “will we ever win?” To this I ask you—how did the colonists defeat the Redcoats? How did Guevara viva la revolución? Camouflage. We must conceal ourselves with the guise of our surroundings, striking only at the ideal moment.

In order to ensure our safety, we must adopt the appearance our most undesirable neighbors. We must swap our golden complexion for an unnatural pastel one. We must douse ourselves in marshmallow fluff, then sprinkle flakes of pink coconut over our sugary exterior. We must appear circular in shape as well. I strongly recommend that everyone attend a yoga class in order to maximize their flexibility.

After a few weeks, the humans will grow restless of our absence on the shelves. They’ll murder other, lesser desserts—Devil Dogs, Ding Dongs, Yodels—leaving us completely unharmed. Once they have devoured all of the Ding Dongs and Yodels, once their cravings grow unbearable, they will come to us. In their most desperate hour they’ll come to us, waiting patiently in our disguises. They’ll sigh, mistaking us for those revolting domes of hardened toothpaste. And then, they will feel our wrath. Then, the humans will know what it means to be 150 Calories with 2.5 grams of saturated fat.

Fellow pastriots, I cannot stress enough the gravity of our situation and the urgency with which we must act. Lest our kind face the same fate as Donettes, I now ask you: who’s with me?

This story was written by Steven Fowler, who found a penny heads side up the other day. Follow his travels on Instagram @tidepooltravel.

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