Congratulations Fun-Size Candy Bar Salesman!

All across the United States, Fun Sized candy bars are consumed.  The ultimate misleading misnomer, the fun-size denomination of candy is, for lack of a better word, bullshit. Sure, we’re all okay with it around Halloween, when it lets people distribute candy at a reasonable price and in reasonable portions in relation to that bacchanal ceremony.  But during the rest of the year?   Fun-size candy bars are the cultural bastion of fat people and dipshits.

Luckily for you, you work in suburban Minnesota, so you’ve got an ample supply of both.

Today, after your third decade as a door to door fun-sized candy bar salesman, you’re going to do a quick run through Edina.  You’re going to pull in so much money from disappointed looking women and men who have to answer their doors in Rascal scooters that you’ll look at the twenty-dollar bills overflowing from your hands and, in that moment, decide to retire.

You’ll drive home in your mini-van, still overflowing with fun-size candy-bars, dreaming of what kind of pool you’ll purchase with your sweet ass haul from the day.  You’ll wonder which one of your gardeners your bored wife will have to stop having sex with once you spend your days at home for a change.

These thoughts will fill your mind so absolutely that it will take the sudden impact of a sport utility vehicle into the side of your mini-van to wake you up.  In that instant the force of the speeding vehicle colliding with the travesty of safety that is your American manufactured car will turn it into a steel piñata, spewing blood and candy in all directions.  You’ll be ejected from your vehicle and land amidst a pile of candy.  Your body will be broken, your breath shallow.  As you feel life leeching from your bones you’ll let your lips curl into a smile.

“I always knew it would end this way,” you’ll murmur at a tiny Twix as your vision fades.

Congratulations Fun-Size Candy Bar Salesman!