Why I Love Butterfingers And More.

I love Nestle Butterfinger candy bars. Not exaggerating or misusing the word: I love them.

There ought to be a trophy for “world's greatest candy bar,” the trophy ought to be in the shape of a Nestle Butterfinger candy bar, and the winner of the award ought to be the Nestle Butterfinger candy bar, who, of course, gladly accepts the award after listening to a heartfelt, complimentary speech given by a Nestle Butterfinger candy bar.

I would be an assassin... if the pay was in Butterfingers and the pay was good.

Dairy Queen offers a desert they consider original called a Butterfinger Blizzard. I call it desert plagiarism. The Butterfinger deserves better.

Eating them is like having a game of capture the flag between the salty, sweet, and bitter parts of your tongue and the all the metaphorical people playing the game of capture the flag have taken five “5-hour energy,” shots. (By the way, after researching this, I've found out the crazy-popular theory that parts of your tongue can experience different sensations with more intensity than others, as displayed on a “tongue-map, is not true, and was developed by a Harvard psychologist named Edwin Boring. ...For real, that theory is not true, and the guy who proved it is actually named Edwin Boring. Look it up.)

If there were an animal that, after it ate, digested everything it's eaten into a butterfinger-based bowel movement that would be, as the animal's ritual dictates, dropped on top of it's master's pillow... I would ­adopt that animal. I would gladly adopt that animal.

If for some reason I was forced to have my penis surgically removed and replaced with a candy bar, but I got to pick which candy bar it was replaced (I don't know why that would happen, just go with it because I'm running out of crazy or exciting things to say... Please, just go with it.) I would pick the Butterfinger.

And more:

-The other night, while listening to my iPod,a fly flew onto my neck and I slapped my neck until the fly flew away. Then I realized there was no fly and that the thing touching my neck was just the wire of my headphones. I repeated that process a few more times than I'd like to admit...

-I saw a police appreciation page on Facebook and was tempted to join but decided to wait a while...see, I don't want to show them I'm appreciative and then have them, inebriated with the compliment, start slacking off and letting a few bank robberies go and all that. No, I won't have that. I'm not an idiot.

-As (I bet) many high-schoolers will agree with, staying after school to get help from a teacher is a miserable thing (that is, when you're seriously having trouble with a class and are forced to be around that teacher who you're struggling with). It gives you the social anxiety, as well as regular anxiety, of a young Kurt Cobain and while it ultimately helps, the fact of the matter is that situation involves two impatient people who want to give up on each other being forced to work together because the government insists kids go to school. Hmm... what's that I wrote? “Being forced to work together because the government insists?” With my writing finesse I just made extra help at school sound like a good thriller movie. Excuse me while I pat myself on the back.