Fair well pudding pops. I cannot indulge in your forbidden pleasures any longer. According to my doctor I have some sort of a problem, he called it fat, that means you I can no longer spend our time together.


No more rolling in the surf of a sandy beach with your taste on my lips. No more dancing the night away with sticky fingers holding you. No more laughing hysterically when you fall from you stick to the ground, only to pick you up and stuff you into my mouth. No more walking up to find my beard stuck to the pillow with your residue.

Our friendship was the purest love I have ever known. Up to as many much as 6 times a day for the past 6 years you have given your life for my happiness. Now my laziness and your overwhelming sugary composition have lead to the demise of our joyous union.

I will take down the picture of you that I have over the fireplace. I will delete your number from my cell phone and take you out of “My 5.” I will have the tattoo of you turned into a celery stick.

Do not cry, my pudding pops; it will make you soggy and prematurely sticky. Then none but the most die-hard, over weight children will want you. You must strive on to please others in the manner that you have me. You have made my life so full of smiles.

Fair well, my pudding pops. I shall miss you.