Dear the Snickers,
I am a lifelong admirer of your chocolaty, caramelly and nutty bar. I have stuck with you through thick and thin over the years, and had my loyalty tested when you went from Marathon to your current name of Snickers. But I persevered with you with the utmost loyalty, like a guide dog to their blind handler, or a hyperactive child to a blue Smartie. Unfortunately the swinging axe of doubt has gashed me once again, and I have been forced to write to you with a grave concern that’s been bugging me for the best part of a month now.
Now, I am a generally normal sort of guy, I go to work, Monday to Friday, 9-5. I enjoy the small things in life like sport and the occasional drink at my local bar, and the thrill of collecting stamps and lumps of ear wax shaped like Bill Oddie. But something has come and thrown a spanner into my well-oiled regime of life. It all began with a small craving for a Snickers bar whilst sorting out my wax collection, which I kept lovingly in a display cabinet in the lean-to on the side of my house.
I decided to take a stroll to my local shop to purchase one of your frankly delectable bars. It was a clear summers evening, the flowers were singing and the birds were in full bloom. “Could life get any better?” I said to myself, whilst gleefully clambering over the local beggar blocking the alley I was walking down.
I arrived at the local shop and skipped merrily toward the confectionary aisle, pushing the shoppers that crowded my path out of my way into various shelving units and offer stands before arriving at my destination. There they were before my eyes, just waiting to be devoured by a sweaty, rotund, and hungry being like myself, five bar packs for only £1.
I delved deep into my pocket and pulled out a fluff covered £5 note, bringing about elation like no other; could I have ever dreamed of such an occasion as to be walking proudly out of the shop with no fewer than 25 bars of pure delight? This was history happening right here, and I couldn’t wait to tell my friends down at the Waxaholics Society about my incredible find. Hastily, and in a manner of much excitement, I threw the fiver at Mr Patel’s till and scampered out the door and down the road.
Now, one of my previous concerns mentioned at the start of this letter was the fact you’d changed the name from Marathon to Snickers. Back in the days of Marathon bars, I used to be able to run marathons, powered by your frankly wonderful bars. But since the name change, the magic has gone, and my running ability has left a little to be desired. So, due to my lack of distance running, I was out of breath and at deaths door about 5 yards up the road, I needed a Snickers, and I needed one fast.
I delved into the bag I had somehow acquired between departing the shop and my sheer exhaustion, and grabbed one of the multipacks. Upon opening it, I grasped the delicious rectangular prism of sweet delight, and prepared to introduce it to the world. This is where the first issue arose.
Usually your wrappers are of an easy nature to open, just a grasp with both sets of index fingers and thumbs and a sharp twist, releasing the contained heaven. But on this occasion, your wrapper was getting the better of me, and despite my efforts, I failed in my task. It was at this point I felt a heavy rumbling in the ground, was it an earthquake? Was it the apocalypse? Was it the Vindaloo I had eaten the night before about to make an ugly re-appearance? I was concerned.
I started to run, powering myself the only way any man can when low on long distance running ability, I began to hum that run inducing song, 80’s smash hit, 99 Red Balloons by the German singing sensation Nena. I stopped at least 8 yards further up the road, gasping for breath. I noticed a plume of smoke and dust rising from behind the old people’s home opposite me, which raised my levels of concern higher. What the hell was it?
Then all of a sudden, what appeared to be a T-62 battle tank came smashing through the front wall of the old peoples home, covering me from head to foot in brick dust and remnants of unused (from what I could tell) incontinence pads. This unsurprisingly prompted more running from me as an element of fright had come upon me.
I looked over my shoulder as I was running and saw the turret hatch open, revealing a glistening image of gold, facial hair and Botox. This could only be one person, the one and only Laurence Tureaud, known by the common folk as Mr T. He was shouting some abuse at me about being a ‘damn fool’, and something about ‘not getting on no plane’ whilst throwing Snickers bars at me quite hard. Although this was almost one of my wildest dreams (the wildest one being Dame Edna and Ann Widdecombe, dipped in honey, throwing these delicious missiles at me), I couldn’t help but feel this wasn’t a good thing.
So, taking inspiration from the student at Tiananmen Square (and the fact I was knackered again) I stopped and faced the tank. This in its own right was a great risk, which, as any fool would tell you, a T-62 battle tank travels at a top speed of 31 mph on road, so its stopping distance is somewhat lengthy. Mr Tureaud stopped millimetres from my being, which caused me to have a sensation in my underpants which I could only describe as being like the aftermath of sitting in a Shepherd’s Pie.
In a language I was semi-familiar with from my avid watching of the A-Team, he declared his disapproval of my feeble attempt to open my Snickers bar, saying I needed to ‘get some nuts’ or the like. As I suffered a mild form of anaphylaxis when consuming nuts (which then raised the question as to why I was eating snickers bars in the first place?), I decided to decline his advice and wished him good day. Once Mr Tureaud had gone I went back to pick up the Snickers bars he had thrown at me, just to discover they were mere placebos. All he had thrown at me were cardboard filled Snickers wrappers, my heart sank, but I still had my pack of delight with me to keep my head held high.
This is not where the issue ended; I hadn’t yet succeeded in opening my Snickers.
Upon arrival back at my house, I closed the front door and proceeded to the kitchen. I attempted once more in opening the Snickers bar, and failed once more, thus resorting to scissors. I opened the wrapper at long last. Then, once again, the ground rumbled.
“Really?” I thought to myself. As much as I loved meeting Mr Tureaud, I was not in the mood for his shenanigans again. So as any Englishman would do, I stood on my front lawn and awaited his arrival with my arms crossed, looking rather disgruntled. Eventually Mr Tureaud turned up with his battle tank, destroying my neighbour Norman’s rather expensive looking gnome collection and rockery in their front garden.
“Take that Norman” I said under my breath, as I really hated the bloke.
Mr Tureaud stopped opposite me and shouted from his turret again. Giving me a tirade of abuse and another barrage of false snickers bars, he departed once again before I could get my disgruntled words out.
Now this happened for the next 23 bars in my rather delectable collection as they all had rather tricky packaging on them. Each time Mr Tureaud would turn up; hurl his vile, barely comprehensible slurs upon my name, and leave. On the plus side, Norman’s garden was becoming a quagmire through the repetitive caterpillar track bombardment it was receiving, and my front garden was starting to look the bees knees compared to his. It was on bar 24, I came up with a cunning plan to get rid of Mr Tureaud once and for all.
Now, I’m an avid battle re-enactment volunteer, and have been for some time, being a man of a military background (thus my title) this was something close to my heart. My last re-enactment was the Battle of Kursk, which involved many, many tanks. An idea sprang to mind as I was shot by a T-34 tank’s machine gunner, “Can I take it to Mr Tureaud in a manner such as the Russians to the Wehrmacht?”
Now as everyone knows, the Red Army’s anti-tank weapon of choice was the use of dogs with bombs strapped to them. They were a bit controversial, and to be frank, useless, so these weren’t an option. What I really needed were Anti-Tank mines. These re-enactments usually occurred during military surplus shows, so finding Anti-Tank mines was relatively simple. After my slaughter (which resulted in the Red Army’s head on assault into Germany to ultimately end the war in Europe) I approached a vendor and asked for some AT Mines, as this was how they talked in the trade. At this point it hadn’t dawned on me to ask the vendor why his stall was called Ornithology to Oblivion, but we’ll come to this later. I casually loaded my four boxes of AT mines into my car, and drove for home.
Upon arrival back at my house, I waltzed over to Normans front garden, checked he wasn’t in his front room, and began burying the AT mines. Upon completion of this, I trudged through the now swamp of a garden back to my abode. All I needed to do was grab Snickers bar number 24 and attempt to open it, resulting in a further rumbling and the ultimate obliteration of Mr Tureaud and his ruddy tank. Simple enough you would think.
Sadly this was not the case. I positioned myself in my front room to prepare to watch the show unfold, and readied myself to open my Snickers bar. I noticed Norman throwing seed onto his garden; this was an irritating past time of his, as it attracted thrushes to his garden. Within seconds, tens of the feathered devils swooped down toward the seed covered ground, just as I made my attempt to open my bar; this is where a sizeable issue occurred.
Now, referring back to the shop I’d bought the AT mines from, I hadn’t taken the time to ask the patron as to why it was called Ornithology to Oblivion. It very quickly became clear to me, as the rumble of tank tracks started, that the AT mines I’d purchased weren’t Anti-Tank mines; they were in fact Anti-Thrush mines. Never had I seen so many feathers and flying, bloody carcasses as I did that fateful afternoon. My trap had been foiled.
Mr Tureaud turned up once again, his caterpillar tracks caked in entrails, feathers and segments of what used to be garden gnomes to deliver another tirade. Feeling rather miffed I stormed out to my front garden and gave Mr Tureaud the rough side of my tongue, calling him a ghastly beast and the like. Mr Tureaud didn’t take too kindly to this, and in turn, fired a shell into my lean-to, destroying my beloved ear wax collection, thus ruining my collection, and frankly, my life. Upon doing this Mr Tureaud drove off, never to be seen again.
As you can imagine, my house insurance does not cover T-62 tank attacks, so I have had to spend quite a lot of money to repair my lean-to. Thankfully the Earwax insurance I had taken out through the Waxaholics Society covered me for £8.75 of the damage, which has helped a great deal.
To cut a long story short, could I please ask you to ensure there are better quality checks on your wrappers for ease of access. Also, would you be kind enough to place a warning upon your wrappers of the impending inconvenience of Mr Tureaud harassing you if you fail in general manliness tasks. I suggest placing it next to the “may contain nuts” warning.
Major Lee Pistov