Why, it's the Reader Submission Section, of course! See the bummed out little monkey up in the corner of your screen? Says so right there, dummy! You see, people keep sending us their own bad candy stories, and some of them are so good, we feel we should be sharing them with the rest of the world. And now we can! EVERY WEEK we'll be featuring a new bad candy story written by YOU, the everyday heroes of this culinary crusade! Yes, EVERY WEEK! Your fragile mind cannot handle extreme READER-SUBMITTED ACTION!!! So put on your glittery uni-tard and strike a pose, because this is your chance to SHINE, superstar!

But remember, none of this works without your support! Do you have a bad candy story to share? Want to impress your friends and make new enemies? Like to make an ass of yourself in public? Then for the love of Christ, set pen to paper and let the prose flow from your quill like turpentine down a hobo's throat! Please refer to the boring small print at the bottom of this page for details.

And now, without further adieu...

My bank loves to call me up at seven o'clock every Saturday morning, offering to send me free waterproof AM/FM radios and calculator watches in exchange for merely mumbling some halfway affirmative-sounding, semi-conscience "uh" into the phone, thus damning myself to a lifetime commitment of obscure Amway-esque pyramid schemes and "discounted medical services". I think somebody must have checked the box marked "rube" next to my name in the bank's database, because they've got me down for every Hallmark card and Las Vegas hotel discount program from here to kingdom come. Not to mention those "underprivileged" children who traipse about my neighborhood selling candy bars and magazine subscriptions. Except at least with them I know my hard-earned cash is going to support some poor kid's withdrawal-enhanced cocaine habit. Because the sad truth is, I quite simply do not possess the willpower to turn salespeople down. Especially if they're big and black and look like they might punch me in the face if I say no. So I wind up with a lot of life insurance, a three-year subscription to "Spring Break 2000 Powerboat Extravaganza", and economy size tubs of peanut butter and licorice.

Worse things have happened, I guess.

Anyway, my whole point is that my bank does a lot of strange, often befuddling things, most of which inevitably cost me lots of cash several years after the fact. So when they decided to mail me not one, but two 100-page booklets detailing how they were now providing me with "new commitments" and "new opportunities", I was understandably nervous. Browsing three pages in to the first hyperactive marketing novella, I became downright scared:

I'm not sure what this other information is that these people freely trade behind my back, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with me being a pussy and a lecher. And unfortunately, it's entirely true. So instead of crying and punching myself in the face like I normally would, I decided to confront the issue head-on: I produced this handy-dandy chart, which documents my darkest fears and weaknesses for the benefit of both vicious salespeople and my mortal enemies.

I'm still not sure how it's going to help anything on my end, though.