- The freaky chocolate children of Moscow
- Cadbury Offers to Pay £1 of Your Hospital Bill
- Poor Ireland gets stuck with Time Out
- Halloween in England
- UPDATE: My One-Month Plan to Seduce the Chocolate Man
- The long walk home
- Cocaine is not Candy, Boys and Girls
- Turndown Service
- A Daily, 5-Second Vacation for The Chosen
Friday, July 07, 2006
Allez les bleus!
I'm in Paris for work this week and last night a colleague invited me to a World Cup semi-final she was throwing at her apartment. Now, did I really truly care whether or not France won? Of course not. Just one week before I had been rooting for England next to hairy, crying men in a pub in London. And the week before that I rooted for the U.S.A. with my backwards-baseball-cap-wearing cousin. When it comes to le foot, I am very flexible.
What makes it so easy for me to switch allegiances and root for each team as though each member was my own brother?
Candy of course.
During the U.S. game I had my Extra gum. During the England game I had English hard candies. And during the French game last night I stocked up on Carambar—one of my favorite candies to eat when ripe.
I say “ripe,” incidentally, because Carambars are known for always being stale. That is probably because the French don’t like GMOs and preservatives and all other things that make gigantic watermelons, Twinkies, and four-eyed tomatoes possible. A shame, really.
But if you can manage to find a juicy Carmabar—oh, what pleasure. The cola and nougat ones are divine.
Oh, and they also have really dumb jokes on them that I never understand. The last one I remember reading was submitted by a 5-year old and was about a piece of wood. And while wood and its many meanings have provided fodder for 13-to-28-year-old boys around the world, this one had to do with a piece of wood and a scarecrow. F-u-n-n-y.
Categories: France, Carambar