I’m the Keebler Tree and This Elf-Run Cookie Factory Is Killing Me Slowly
How would you feel if a serious disease ravaged your internal organs and then a manufacturing plant staffed by elves set up shop inside you?
When those hell-born beasts found me, I was only physically hollowed out. Enter a tiny old man with eight fingers and a big dumb flopped-over hat. Now I’m emotionally hollow too.
The ads for E. L. Fudge used to say “E as in everybody, L as in loves,” but “exploit leechingly” is more like it. Apparently not everybody deserves love. Or even to be paid rent by a corporation conducting business out of their body.
They moved in on (and into) me like I was a vacant strip mall space in September and they were Spirit Hollow-een. Except they’ve stuck around. Don’t tell me that’s just how the cookie crumbles: I’m a living being and this is not right.
There are a million better places to house a production plant than in a plant, say, at an actual production site intended for commercial use. At a bare minimum, choose a tree that’s already dead. While you will still take its dignity, at least it won’t have to live out the remainder of its photosynthesizing days overwhelmed by the cloying scent of cookies. Do you have any idea how hard it is to stay healthy (when you’re already ailing, I might add) while forced to constantly smell fresh-out-the-oven baked goods?
And it had to be Keebler, of all snack brands. Their confections are as dry as a Popeyes biscuit that’s been flattened by a truck, with only the vague idea of chocolate smeared on their fudge-striped shortbread. I’m not sure we’d be having this conversation if it were Oreos popping out of me. Like any reasonable tree, I would’ve welcomed that double-stuffed deliciousness with open branches.
I’m pleading for help here. Before you rush to plant saplings this Arbor Day so they can grow into factories of their own, consider helping me elf-vict these hellspawns. As a small token of appreciation, I’ll send you a pack of Chips Deluxe.
Although the fungus that took the better part of my trunk was bad, being infected with a baker’s dozen of pointy-eared parasites is far worse. I may be the one with my innards rotted out, but those elves are rotten to the core.
