That’s right. I just crunched the shit out of your lollipop, you little twerp.
What are you going to do about it? Cry to Mr. Turtle? That’s what you get for wasting my time with such a dumb fucking question. How many licks to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? Who gives a shit? How about you go put on some goddamn pants?
It tasted good, too. So good, in fact, that I’ve decided you’re going to bring me more candy every day from now on. I’m talking about the good stuff: Snickers, Zagnut Bars, Jolly Ranchers… None of this Necco wafer or Jujubes bullshit. And spare me the riddles, kid. Nobody wants to do math while they’re digging Milk Dud residue from the roof of their beak or sucking down a Pixy Stick.
I can tell from your waistline that you have a near endless supply of sugary goodness, so spare me the excuses. If I don’t see you back here with my candy before noon tomorrow–and every day after, I will chase you down like a heat seeking missile, pull every one of the hairs off of your little hollow head, and weave them into my nest for holiday decoration.
Tell anyone about this conversation, and I will fuck you up. My talons can turn muskrat flesh into confetti, so don’t play with me. I can eat an entire rat in under five seconds, so imagine what I could do to you. Your skin is as soft as the cake you probably eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I’ll bet your land speed maxes out at three miles an hour. Your eyes don’t work at nighttime, and even if they did, you don’t have one tenth the reflexes of a field mouse. And I eat field mice like goddamn popcorn.
So run along, kid, and let this be a lesson to you. It’s not about how many licks of the lollipop. It’s about being smart enough not to walk naked into the woods to ask a fucking apex predator to taste your candy.
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