Let's get one thing straight, right from the start. The name of this candy is My Love. I'm not propositioning you. It's a Chinese candy called My Love, though there ain't a whole lotta lovin' going on between this snack and us. Yeah, sure, an argument could be made that My Love is actually just the brand name, since it clearly says "My Love brand" on the label, but it's the only English word on the package, and let's face it: I can't read Chinese, and you're in no position to tell me you can either. So from now on, this candy will be referred to as My Love. Besides, it's rather ironic, really.
My Love: the Chinese enigma. And the source of our greatest adventure yet.
I'll be honest with you, right up front. Every once in a while, a candy puts me at a loss for words. And I'm rarely at a loss for words; it's an odd occasion when I'm not running my mouth for hours, blathering on like an idiot about my collection of vending machine-dispensed Japanese schoolgirls' underpants or my near-complete set of pewter Swedish butter knives. And when it comes to Bad Candy, you just can't shut Ben and I up. But My Love is part of a new breed of inedibles. My Love is protected by a thin, porous barrier of "not funny", which was specifically designed to thwart all attempts at mockery. The packaging of My Love was apparently designed by a team of scientists to be as completely unfunny and uninteresting as possible. And it is this humorless barrier that made writing a review of My Love so difficult. It would appear that the evil Bad Candy Consortium has finally caught wind of our secret revolution, and this is their counterattack. So it falls to Ben and I to figure out how to make this long chunk of text at least semi-entertaining. Our solution?Enrique.
Or rather, "Enrique".
Ever since his brush with Fruit Salted Plum Suckers and Chaca Chaca, Jeff has been addicted to bad candy reviewing. He's also a bit of a fame whore. As a result, Jeff has been continuously begging and pleading with us to include him in our next review. But considering how poorly Jeff faired, both physically and mentally, in both of his previous attempts, it was with his best interest in mind that we refused. And no matter how much Jeff begged, pleaded, and cried like a little puss, we stood our ground. Finally, on the night of "the tasting", resigned to his fate, Jeff gave up.
"Fine. Forget it, then. TO HELL WITH YOU GUYS AND YOUR STUPID PAGE!" cried Jeff as he stormed out of my apartment. Yet, as he turned to go, Ben and I noticed a glimmer in his eye that told us something was afoot. Jeff had a plan, and if you knew Jeff like we do, you'd realize that it could only end up in his eventual embarrassment and failure.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, there was a knock on the front door. I was standing in the kitchen, struggling to open the vacuum-sealed My Love bag with gardening shears and several large metal clamps, when Ben answered. And when Ben looked at me from the doorway with a mixture of pity and embarrassment, I knew, once again, we were right. Jeff had done something stupid.
I put down the My Love package, which was apparently sealed using advanced hyper-adhesive nanotechnology, and walked over to the door. Lo and behold, there stood Jeff, wearing a cheap Hawaiian shirt, a plastic dollar sign medallion, and the silliest fake mustache I have ever laid eyes upon.
"Hallo," he said with a grin. "Mah name es Enrique, and I ahm Jeff's Cuban cousin. Hee said dat chu guys needed some help witchoo candy. So here I ahm. Whatchoo think, eh?"
Ben and I stood frozen in silence, staring slackjawed at what had to be the most embarrassing racial caricature this side of Al Jolson in blackface. For a moment, I hoped that this was all a bad joke, but even as I stood there, waiting for the punchline, I knew that there wasn't one. This was it. Jeff was totally serious. Ben was the first to break the awkward silence.
"Jeff, man, you don't have to do this. This... this is just sad. This is totally unnecessary."
"What are choo talkink about, mahn? I'm no Jeff, I'm Enrique!" replied Jeff.
For a long moment, Ben and I looked at each other, mulling over our options, as Jeff stood in my doorway grinning at us like an idiot. We knew that if we didn't let him in he might be come agitated, and when Jeff gets agitated he's liable to become dangerous, like a crazed gorilla. We finally decided not to press the issue, since it just wasn't worth the effort. Stepping away from the door, we let "Enrique" in.
What a mistake.
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