2003-07-24 12:50 p.m.
The Sweet Taste of Addiction
It all started a few days ago when my boss gave me a single little 100g bag of Philippine Brand Dried Mangoes. Oh, the mangoes. Where can I begin?
I have experienced some quite compelling things in my short but busy life of sex and drugs and rock and roll. But, nothing I have experienced is as addictive, nothing has the incredible, inescapable gravity that these dried mangoes have. And they have it in droves.
Their texture is perfect: chewy and moist, with just enough elasticity to excite the jaw, but not enough to tire it. And the flavor is perfect, bordering an obscene caricature of tropical fruit goodness—all the best nuances seem almost exaggerated to the point that one wonders if God is playing a trick on the world, starting first with your mouth.
You can not eat just one piece. No, you really need to understand that I am not speaking metaphorically when I say that. It is not—and surely has not ever in the history of the Philipine Mango Company—been physically possible for any human to eat just one piece.
Ok, let me explain. Imagine watching your hot friends fucking like fallen angels only inches from your face—close enough to smell their sweat and their sex so clearly that you mistake it for your own. Caught up in the swirling whirlpool of ecstasy before you, you can taste their every movement and sensation. The tension builds in your body and mind, and soon you are irrevocably infected with their energy—turned on and cranked up to high heat. It's just too much to bear, you must release. And then you reach to touch yourself. But, you think, "I'll just stroke it once. Yes, once will surely be enough. I will definitely only do it once." It's like, yeah right. How could anyone think they could only taste a little of this celestial and indulgent pleasure and then just walk away? It's just not possible. And, even this does not do the mangoes—the sweet treasure of Cebu—justice. Seriously, this is nothing—those mangoes will bring you to your knees, a weeping, miserable wreck.
So, they are fruity and good and come from trees and stuff and you can't eat just one. So, what's the big deal, right? Isn't fruit supposed to be good for you or something?
Well, you see, when eaten in any large quantity (which is the only amount that you can eat) they turn your anus into a foamy shit–superhighway. Simply: They excite the mouth, but they ignite the bowel. Imagine one of those insulation blower machines, the contraptions that they use to force air propelled insulation into walls of houses. Now, imagine one of these inside of your colon, blowing a messy, liquid spray of mostly–digested mango puree through your tortured–like–a–witch–in–the–middle–ages torn up anus. Oh, and the gas! It smells! It burns! It ends friendships you thought would last a lifetime! it brings new meaning to the words "farting up a shit storm"!
Ok, so, back to the original point. My boss gave me the 100g bag of the sweet stuff, and I did what any mortal human would do. I ate the whole bag immediately. I couldn't help it, I really couldn't.
But, then, as a true testament to my human fallability, within seconds of finishing the bag I desperately scoured the internet for a place that would sell me more—in bulk. I tell you, when you are under the mango spell, you just don't care about the violent anal consequences. Click, click, click went the mouse. Add to cart. I tore through my bag for my bank card. And when I came to, I saw that I had bought $50—working out to 2.8kg, over six pounds—of the dried, fruity manna.
And today they arrived. I was already over–full from lunch, but that didn't stop me from stuffing slice after slice of sugary, orange mangoes into my stupid mouth. Nothing could have stopped me; nothing could have stopped anyone—not even the threat of unspeakable war crimes against my tender rectum.
And somewhere a Philipino mango farm worker whose face I would never see cashes his paycheck. He knows nothing of me. And, I knew nothing of him except that somehow he and his colleagues will have a greater affect on my anus than any other humans, living or dead, and there is something very humbling and beautiful about this realization for me. It's like anonymous sex, only the same.
I think the moral of the story is that it if you want something that will entice your money away from you with the sweet temptation of immeasurable pleasure while destroying your body from the inside out, leaving you broke and alone, then you should go for the jewel of Cebu: Philippine Brand Dried Mangoes. If you want to play it safe, stick with something a bit more manageable, like main–lining heroin, smoking speed, or professional drunken prison monkey knife fighting.
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