Cadbury Eggs — Sickening Ordeal Meant Apparently to Permit Us to Know the Suffering of Jesus

Viscous? Check. Cloyingly Sweet? Check. Oozing When Broken Like a Sugar Cadaver? Check.

Perfectly serviceable chocolate. Ruined by a quivering globule of Strawberry Shortcake’s cholera snot.

If you are so compromised in your critical faculties that you have somehow deluded yourself that you LIKE these fucking things, then stop reading right now. If I could, I would banish you for all time from the Internet, since you are likely the kind of soft-minded scolds that take every goddamn thing somebody writes to be the literal fucking truth, and so you choke every comment thread with sanctimonious rebuttals that literally could not be more extraneous, as they are predicated upon a dimwitted misread. Like, say, a headline that compares a gooey, stupid confection to the mortification of the flesh experienced by the Christ. If this is you, you can fuck right off. I am not ACTUALLY claiming that the suffering of your Savior is the same as these fucking Geodes of Diabetes that get foisted upon us for a few weeks each year. Because it is far worse.

The Cadbury Egg is a gelatinous horror, comprised of a waxy pod of unsatisfactory chocolate brimming with the gluey ejaculate of a Sugar Yeti. If you served this to Paul and Mary on The Great British Bake Off, he would hold you down while she brained you with a Pyrex Loaf Pan, hissing “How DARE you bring this splodgy nightmare into The Tent?” in your ear.

There is no basis upon which to claim it is enjoyable. It is the candy equivalent of Malort, or absinthe — those who claim they like the taste are doing so only to be contrary. At least with Mezcal, you have the prospect of tripping balls. When you eat a Cadbury Creme Egg, your teeth hurt and you lapse into a fugue state called a Sugar Seizure.

The Cadbury Creme Egg is the kind of candy that might be produced by an exceptionally lazy glass blower.

Fans of Cadbury Eggs also typically also like all manner of shitty things like Arby’s and Mitch McConnell. Fun fact: the reason McConnell talks that way — there’s been a single Cadbury Egg resting on his tongue since 1982. The reason it’s taken so long to melt, obviously, is that like all tortoises he is cold blooded. And, yes. I recognize that this fact is as far from fun as it is possible to get.

If you feel compelled to defend these demon testes, then you are essentially a champion of engulfing your own uvula in fondant and savoring the panic of the drowning. To bite into a Cadbury Creme Egg is to know the viscous eruption at the crescendo of a bus station blow job administered to an Oompa Loompa — you it is so, so degrading, and as you choke down your thick and sickly payoff, he buttons up his grimy singlet and scurries out into the rain, avoiding your gaze.

And you take his handful of shame-coins and hustle through the downpour to the CVS to cop. And you run to the alley out back and your hands are shaking as you rip through the cellophane. And you place a Peep on that spoon and you cook it down. And your pupils dilate as you draw the hot healing nectar into your spike and tie off. And your eyes roll back in your head as you find a vein and sink into that thick candy cloud, man.

A bloke clear on their true purpose.

You can find longer essays, satire, fiction, and info on the workshops I teach in Chicago on my site: ianbelknap.com — also, check out the WRITE CLUB podcast