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Thursday, April 10, 2014

Mallomar Motherfucker

*The following blog post contains profane language. Reader discretion is advised.
















There is a man we often see mumbling to himself. He wears a dark frock coat and gray trousers which are too short. Splotches of a brown substance splotch his attire. Splotches of what? Crumbs adorn the crevices of his sparse beard. Crumbs of what? And let’s not get into the fluffy white substance which suspiciously and conspicuously covers his hands.

He keeps to himself and seems bothered and angry. If you go near him he usually gives a mean look and says something like "go away you worthless bitch!"

Now, dear reader, we arrive at the moment of this tale where the true nature of a situation manifests. I had gone to Bouchon Bakery for their new Mallomar treats. If you didn't know, Mallomars are graham cracker cookies topped with fluffy marshmallow cream  and coated in dark chocolate. If you surmised they are heavenly, you are indeed correct. Now, to get back to the matter at hand, the Bouchon Bakery version is slightly different than the classic version, as the Bouchons are coated in milk chocolate and have a sprinkling of chocolate crunchies on top. If you don't know what chocolate crunchies are, I suggest you consult a dictionary.

As I sat munching on my Mallomar treat I noticed the brown splotchy, crumby, white fluffy man keenly observing me. He looked much like a dog watching his master eating a chop of beef, hoping - praying - for a scrap. Then it all came to me. The splotches of brown. The crumbs in his beard. The white cream. This was a man who loved Mallomars!

“What do you want,” I said, knowing exactly what he wanted.

“Mallomars, motherfucker!”