As I walked a back alley of Ghost Town, an ominous purple fog hung in the air, and with each step it swirled like a brew in a witch’s cauldron. Eerie green lamplights flickered devilishly, casting a sick pallor on my skin. From the corner of my eye, I saw something lurking, something in tattered clothes with a hideous half-missing face, like the victim of a flesh-eating bacteria.
Like most addictions, mine started innocently, like a casual snort of coke at an Academy Awards party, but my drug of choice is more sly, more pernicious. I’m hooked on—ice cream snack cups. Those evil little cartons are the nickel bag of dairy products, what I call—Gateway Ice Cream. They are nothing short of an international junk-food marketing conspiracy designed to weaken and then bilk the public into gladly paying $1.25 for a product that should cost 10 cents.
Since I turned 60, for every gift-giving occasion my friends give me the same thing—moisturizers. I don’t get it. They didn’t do this when I was 59. Did I suddenly stumble into some bad lighting that makes my face resemble a topographical map of Death Valley?