Choosy Moms

Imagine my unpleasant surprise this morning when a bite of my breakfast of champions, a plastic forkful of Peter Pan Honey Roasted Crunchy Peanut Butter, contained a peanut that would not be crunched.

I spat out the offender, and saw that it was not a peanut at all. It was a freakin' shard of driftwood-looking stem. I am returning it to Peter. I'm sure he would want to know of my misfortune. Lucky for him, I am not a litigious person. I was not harmed. But I could have been!!! What if I bit down wrong and busted a $640 crown? What if I sliced open my superior labial frenulum? What if I swallowed that stick and it got stuck in my esophagus due to the obstruction of my goiter? Heavens to Betsey! That foreign flotsam could have wreaked havoc in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's intestinal tract.

Peter will receive his slab of wood in the mail. Far be it from me to keep such an item that I did not purchase. It's not like a box of CrackerJacks, that canister of crunchy delight that Peter is hawking through a promise to provide one million meals to help hungry kids through Feeding America. How about feeding them POINTY STICKS, Peter? Hows about that? Give those hungry kids a bellyful of petrified peanut stems. It's not like these kids have built up an immunity to twigs, like Mr. S and his green bean stems. At least those suckers are stewed into a soft consistency.

















The picture does not do justice to that log. In fact, it looks like the much more pleasant and child-friendly worm at the bottom of a bottle of tequila. Not that I would know anything about the worm, mind you. The #1 son's finger obscures the sharp, harpoonlike business end of the weapon. Like a true enclosed prize in a breakfast food, it was lurking at the very bottom of the jar. Thank the Gummi Mary, I did not chomp down on it in a sandwich, or bake it in a batch of Easter cookies.

I did not buy any more Peter Pan Honey Roasted Crunchy Peanut Butter on my excursion to The Devil's Playground today.

And for the record, Peter hangs out at ConAgra. It wasn't enough to foist salmonella on the population through powdered seasoning mixes this year, or through Peter in 2007. Now the mighty Con has to sever an artery to get more sensational free publicity.

I'm mad as heck, and I'm not going to eat it anymore!

Choosy moms choose Jif, because Jif doesn't maim their beloved children.