Alien Sex: I Am Mr. Peanut (and to a much lesser extent, The Walrus)

My father is a bona fide peanut lover. He hides his own personal stash under his workbench in the basement, so that no one else in the house can get to it. Sure, there are still some peanuts in the kitchen for all to share, but the good stuff is in the stash.

Have I ever violated the sanctity of the stash? Bite your tongue, heathen. NEVER. And you can bet your worthless life I never will. But I've seen it, and I swear to everything you believe in:

It...Is...Immaculate.



Why do I bring this up? To establish my credibility as a witness.

Inherent in my DNA is the peanut connoisseur gene. I can tell a bad peanut from 15 feet away.

The Perfect Peanut?

I've unfortunately never met the perfect peanut, though I hope to some day. We'll settle down and have two little EliNuts of our own to run and play with. It will all be just grand.

But I digress.

I can confirm, for example, that, in the botanical sense, the peanut is neither a pea NOR a nut... it is officially considered a legume. Would any casual peanut fan know that? No, of course not.

What exactly is a legume, you ask? Read a book, simpleton.

This isn't School House Rock.

I’m here to talk serious nut-news.

"Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks; I don't care if I NEVER get back."

Is there anything more beautiful than to hear that during the 7th inning stretch at Wrigley?

Is there anything that says "Baseball" more than that?

Is there anything that says "America" more than that?

That's the creed we, as dedicated baseball fans, live by. But after surveying the landscape of the current peanut market, I’m starting to think it’s not such a bad thing to never get back - to breathing or otherwise living my life – now that I’ve seen what passes as a honey roasted peanut these days.

Now it's another subject entirely to get into the current state of Cracker Jack prizes. Rub-on tattoos? Why not just send our children directly to prison? I mean...how 'bout a little imagination? I could go on and on, ad nauseum, about this very subject.

No, ladies and gentlemen, this article is strictly about peanuts.

Specifically, the highest class of peanut ever made: Honey Roasted.

I don’t associate myself with the honey roasted peanuts that have been watered down to be included on airline flights, or the cheap, generic, "no frills" supermarket brands.

I'm talking high caliber, clean cut, pure as the driven snow, honey roasted peanuts.

Legumian Gold, bitches.

The stickiest of the icky.

Is there a more perfect snack food? Is there a more beautiful phrase in the English language than "honey roasted peanut"? I defy you to prove that there is. ("Cellar Door" doesn't count).

So you understand, then, why I cannot sit idly by as the name of the King Of Peanuts is sullied by low class impostors.

Emerald brand "Old Fashioned Honey Roasted Peanuts" just don't get the job done.

First of all, if you're going to have "Old Fashioned" printed on the label, that right there tells me you're not serious about peanuts. It's either "Olde Fashioned" or it isn't.

The "e" may be silent, but I simply cannot be. Not while this egregious crime is being committed against the baseball (and peanut) community.

Second, they taste neither honeyed nor roasted, and cannot be described as anything but bland.

We're not talking "lightly salted cashews" here. OK? We're talking Honey...Fucking...Roasted...Peanuts. The most decadent of all peanuts.

OK? So don't.....



Anyway, as to not overstay my welcome or thoroughly exhaust your all-American attention span, which I’m sure is right at its breaking point, if not well passed it…I’ll get right to the point.

These peanuts just don’t cut it.

Look for Mr. Peanut...every time.

Not only is he the least racist of all food mascots, but he’s a symbol of unfailing attention to detail and the highest quality honey roasted peanut money can buy.

Don’t demean yourself by settling for less than the best.

Integrity can be fleeting, but self-denigration is forever.

- Eli Sugar