You know Peeps, springtime's chick-shaped 'marshmallow product.' Right. They're cute. But I can't hack 'em.
Peeps do what few foods do. They assault all five senses: sight, smell, sound, taste and touch.
Look, check out those colors. You will not find these hues in nature.
Peeps pink is hotter than a Vegas drag queen's mini-skirt. The yellow and purple—the Peeps people call it 'lavender' but that's an insult to everything Liberace ever stood for—are concentrated Crayola. And the white is so white, it's like staring at the sun.
Unlike real food, Peeps do not smell and they do not taste.
Oh, Peeps are sweet all right, so sweet they set teeth to quivering. Somehow, Peeps are sweeter than swallowing a spoonful of white sugar.
Perhaps that's the result of Peeps' texture, a sort of foam made of sugar, corn syrup and gelatin, then speckled with more sugar. Peeps are like a post-dessert burp wrapped in sandpaper.
The word Peeps ought to be added to the 'seven words you can't say on television.'
Like most of the sassy seven, it's a couple of consonants bookending vowels. Also, 'peep,' the verb, is naughty enough.
The name 'Peeps' is just there to vivify those endless rows of baleful, straight-staring, communist, shoulder-to-shoulder chicks. Peeps are a plot, especially the 15-pack.
For all their failure as a food, however, I have found some helpful, even fun, uses for Peeps.
Fresh Peeps make good heel lifts in hand-me-down shoes that are too big. I have dispatched an unwanted hamster by placing a purple Peep in his exercise wheel.
If Easter is a sunny day, you can take your niece or nephew outside and have fun burning holes in Peeps with magnifying glasses. I suggest beginning with the two Peep 'eyes,' one for you, one for kiddo, and see who melts through the Peep first.
Place four stale Peeps—this will take some time, as Peeps are terribly slow to dry—on compass points and they decoratively support a plateful of proper candy.
Like, say, jelly beans.