Look, Mexico... we're sorry.
We promised you we'd branch out. We promised new candies, new countries, and new adventures. "No, we aren't racist!" we exclaimed. "We aren't singling out Mexican candies!" we bellowed. "Mexican candy isn't as bad as Double Zout!" we remarked. "Mexican candy rocks!" shouted Ben alone, because even I wouldn't go that far.
Well, guess what, Mexico. We lied.
You can't blame us, though. I mean, look at this sack of crap for chrissake! Look at it, you rotten bastards! How could we NOT review it?!? It's just too goddamn easy! Any candy that "Has Vegetable Salty" is a candy that... what was that? Yeah, you heard me right; I said "Has Vegetable Salty." Let me repeat that, straight from the bag itself: "Has Vegetable Salty." I'm not stuttering, and you don't have a hearing problem. "Has Vegetable Salty."
Has vegetable... salty. Has. Vegetable. Salty.
Now, I'm certainly not the smartest man alive. I mean, I used to think the term "different strokes for different folks" referred to masturbation techniques fer cryin' out loud, so what the hell do I know? But even in my most dull-witted moments, I never would have thought the phrase "Has Vegetable Salty" was:
1) a complete, cognitive sentence, or
2) a phrase that would tempt anyone, anywhere, to eat chunky red slop.
And if no one else has the cajones to stand up and exclaim that the phrase "Has Vegetable Salty" is the stupidest thing ever written on a bag, then goddammit, I will! Because Ben and I are in-your-face kinda guys, and we aren't afraid to tell the truth! YEEEEEEE HAWW!
Aside from the aforementioned "Has Vegetable Salty," Cisne, manufactured by Garcia Magana e Hijos, comes adorned with a wealth of informational festoonery. For instance, Sr. Garcia was kind enough to point out that not only are you consuming 102% of your needed daily caloric intake, but you are also getting a healthy 62.16% of your daily value of humidity. On the other hand, you'll recieve only 12.14% of your recommended allowance of ashes, which is a shame, because you know how your mom is always harping on you to eat more ashes. But, as the manufacturer is quick to point out, "the present report is only representative of the anaylzed sampl [sic]", which is pretty much the equivalent of saying "there weren't any roaches in our bag, but some probably fell into yours." Except our sentence made sense and theirs didn't.
Also, what is up with the crudely drawn swan? Do swans like this shit? And why is this mush bright red? Blood? What are these chunks floating around in here? Is that TAMARIND I smell through the plastic?!? Is that a FLESHY PART OF FRUT I see!?? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!?
These are questions, my friend, which currently possess no answer. However, like ying without yang, like zen without motorcycle maintenance, and like Ben without his tight leather pants, this unbalance shall pass. It must pass. It will pass. Probably.
I guess now would be a good time to tell you that Ben and I haven't actually eaten Cisne yet. It reminds us too much of Tamarind, including the plastic sack packaging and the poorly translated catchphrases. Even now, years later, the anguish caused by the fleshy part of frut continues to plague us. And we dare not anger our inner demons, lest they rise, like pussing, festering cesspools of bile and hatred, the black ooze of our darkest thoughts poring from our moist, sweaty skin, and radiate outward to consuming the lives and souls of the hapless victims who fall within their mutual paths of rampage and destruction. Plus we are easily frightened by Mexican candy. At least we're man enough to admit it.
So, we are going to collectively play the part of Nostredamus here and try to predict how this candy will taste, based solely on its appearance and our previous encounters with Hispanic treats. Our official prediction is:
Cisne tastes really, really bad. It probably stinks, too.
Perhaps some day, when we are feeling brave and man-like, we will actually eat the candy and see how our assessments measure up to the real thing. Or maybe we'll just feed it to Jeff and see how he reacts. It depends on our mood. Until then, we are content to sit with our safely sealed packets of Cisne, squishing and squeezing them like a poor man's waterweenie.