Crunchy: (adj) crisp or brittle.
Here I go again, bathing in the acid of honesty.
I don’t know why I do this. I could lie to you. You’d never know. It isn’t like you’re trying to vet me for government service.
I could deceive you like crazy.
But for some reason, I’ve settled in on this “schtick” of candor.
Honest, even if it makes me look a little dumb. Because I will tell you right now, looking a little dumb is better than lying and looking a lot dumb.
I don’t like crunchy things.
I just don’t.
People like their cereal crunchy.
Not me. I let mine sit around until it drowns, and the coroner arrives to confirm that it’s fully floppy and dead. As a kid, I often ate other children’s cereal they had rejected—“because it wasn’t crunchy anymore.”
Maybe that’s the root cause of my obesity. At least it would be fun to blame it on that.
I don’t like crunchy chicken.
You know—what they call “extra crispy?”
My French fries can be a little crispy—but if they’re a lot crispy, doesn’t that just mean they’re burned?
And I never got the idea of a crunchy candy bar. Has anyone ever tasted a Milky Way? No crunch anywhere. Just ecstasy.
I don’t like crunchy.
I will eat peanut brittle—only because I know that on the thirteenth chewing in my mouth, it turns into that delicious peanut butter paste I love so much.
And crunching is not a positive word. (Just consider your car.)
I don’t like to put my teeth into a reluctant apple. I know it sounds silly, but when an apple insists on being crisp and crunchy, I feel it’s just resistant to being eaten. Sometimes it even adds a sour disposition to match the crunch.
I have no criticism for people who like crunchy things, but my philosophy is, if you find yourself in the middle of the crunch…
Just pour on more milk and wait awhile.
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