Mr. Peanut…dead? Who killed my favorite shell-head? Who planned the centenarian’s roasted demise? How will I ever look at another peanut in the same way as old again? I feel like I need to string peanuts and drape strands on branches throughout my yard as a memorial for the monocle-eyed mascot. But then I’d have to watch crows and cardinals peck away at the individual tributes characterizing the spindly-legged peanut man. And squirrels would likely hoard the nuts away leading to excruciatingly slow peanut demise. I can’t handle any more peanut deaths! Can I ever eat another peanut? Right now, the thought of munching on one peanut butters my insides. How can I eat another peanut without seeing the white, gloved hands grasping for survival on a bare tree limb over cliff’s edge, then the fall into canyon’s depth? Final gaze from hopeless, help-me peanut eyes will haunt me forever. The explosion! Oh, the nightmares! Mental trauma! Psychological disorders! Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo! Sue who?
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