Analogy

Today is a good day. I'm the happiest guy alive today. I had to tie myself down to my chair to post, I was jumping around way too much all morning. Happy ma. Happy! I'm so happy today! I hope you get the picture; I'm trying to tell you how happy I am.

And it's all thanks of a piece of chocolate.

A little background to facilitate your understanding of my chocolate plight.

I have always been a fan of chocolate. A huge fan. I have subscriptions to many chocolate magazines back home and even here in Dublin. Whenever the guys all meet up, we don't talk cock, we talk choc.

I have never really had a piece of chocolate to call my own. I have always had to share with either my dad or my sister. My mom's not really a chocolate person, you see, so she doesn't really give a shit.

I messed up a piece of my dad's chocolate a few years back. And I mean messed up. I accidentally sat on it, stepped on it, crushed it. It was fucked, basically. Even after a visit to the chocolatier, it wasn't ever the same. It didn't taste right, it made funny noises when you tried to eat it.

We have lived with the fucked piece of chocolate for years now, as we couldn't find someone stupid enough to unload it on.

Over the summer though, the aforementioned piece of chocolate started giving real problems. It was insane, really. You couldn't even bring the piece of chocolate close to your mouth, it was that serious.

That prompted my dad to consider getting a new piece of chocolate. And being the resident chocolate fanatic of the family, he naturally discussed it with me.

It started out as careless banter, and knowing my dad, I was doubtful whether he would really spring on a fresh chunk of chocolate. But we talked about it nonetheless, mostly as an excuse to bond over guy stuff. Any nothing's more manly than chocolate, I tell you.

The discussion picked up momentum about two weeks ago, when even my mom was bitching at my dad to get some fresh chocolate. She complained that we don't have enough chocolate to go around in the house, and she sure as hell was tired of sharing, especially with me, as my chocolate eating habits were rather rough, gruff and disgusting.

So, the initial plan was to get Japanese chocolate. Dependable, easily maintained. The trade-off was that it lacked any real flavour, it hadn't any substantial flair. But that didn't matter. Practicality, my good man. I was to share the piece of Japanese chocolate with my sister.

It was a pretty good deal, and not earning any money myself, I couldn't ask for more (nor did I dare to). If you didn't know, the farmer is a complete psychopath. On a good day.

So it was a done deal. Japanese chocolate it was to be.

But the deal did not close, it did not materialise. My dad called to tell me that it could wait, and the best thing was to delay the purchase till I went back home next year.

I wasn't disappointed in the least, as I knew something like that was bound to happen. The farmer's a real hot hot chicken shit character, a trait which unfortunately passed on to me by way of genomic imprint. Cibai DNA.

So all talk of chocolate ceased. At least for a few days.

A few days later the farmer called to talk cock. I was rather surprised as talking cock was not one of his regular indulgences, especially with me. We were talking about chocolate, as it was the topic of the moment.

The conversation naturally veered to me salivating over the phone about my favourite chocolate, my dream chocolate. German, baby. It was just a dream, definitely, as it was not a realisitic investment. Especially at my age. I told him I would spring for it with my first chunky paycheck.

The offhanded suggestion on my part turned out to produce some effect on the farmer. Maybe he could hear the desperation in my voice, maybe he could sense the incessant longing in my tone. Whatever it was, it doesn't matter. What matters is that it worked somehow.

He called almost every day, asking for more information about the particular piece of chocolate I was interested in. Specific details, down to how large the chocolate was, what was the percentage of cocoa, etc. He actually showed some interest, which was surprising.

Then came a commitment on his part. He talked it over with my mom, and he said there was a possibility of him getting me that particular piece of chocolate. It would require some hard work on my part, getting the proper grades and all that jazz.

I was surprised. I'm sure there was some joy intermingled with the surprise I felt, but knowing the farmer, I didn't put too much stock on his words. I would have to wait and see, I thought.

Fast forward to a few hours ago. I was awakened by a phone call from the farmer. He sounded really excited. He was at the chocolatier. He just taste-tested the particular piece of chocolate I was cumming all over over carpet about.

He said it was really something. Real German chocolate, balls. Smooth, with a kick, not too sweet either. Once you bite, you can't turn back. Ho ho ho. I knew I had the farmer by the balls.

He asked me really weird questions, specific questions like what colour did I want it in, what packaging I want it to be wrapped in, and lots more. Groggy with sleep, I just played along, as I know he's as screwed in the head as I am (after all, he did pass it on to me).

"Why the questions, farmer?"

"My friend who's in the chocolate business said that in a month of two, all imported chocolates will increase in price. Something to do with the imminent Imported Chocolates Act. So I'm buying you the piece of chocolate now. It's gonna be all yours, so you better take care of it. There's also a waiting list for the chocolate, so the timing is just right."

I was dumbfounded, balls. My mind ran wild.

"Are you serious? For real? Why are you being so nice to me? Are you afraid I'm going to go mad from all the studying?"

"Take it as a form of motivation. Study hard, knowing that this piece of chocolate will be waiting for you when you return."

"Waa? A bribe ah? I'm not seven anymore, you know? You can't buy me a Lego set and expect me to be all different after that."

"Oh shut up and be grateful."

"Uh. Thanks. Really. Thank you very much."

And that concludes my chocolate story, ladies and gentlemen. I'm still a little fuzzy from all the excitement.

Bloody hell I'm so fucking happy. Even Jessica Alba, naked and willing can't top this. I'm so happy. It's a beautiful day. Fuck yeah. Thanks, farmer.

This entry was posted by tsh, on Friday, August 26, 2005. You can bitch back.