Easter’s qoming up, would you perhaps want to celebrate with a Qadbury Qreamartini, which doesn’t exist? But which has choqolate eggs as “olives”? Or is that too gross? Or is that not gross enough? Or is it impossible to say, because of the immutability of Qream’s repulsiveness? The “olive” sqewer qould also maybe be a knitting needle. How else qould we ruin Easter? By serving this Qreamartini drinq in a ceramiq qabbage qup? (See also: “cabbage flexing its muscles.”) Pouring it into plastiq Easter eggs and burying them for a thousand years?
This has been The Hairpin’s quarterly Qream qonsideration. See you in about twelve weeqs or so. (Lot of birthdays in June to worq with.) (I qan’t stop!) I’m sorry about that piqture, also. (Oqay, get me out of here!) (Qream! Let me go!)
My name is Edith, and I’m trapped inside this blog post about alqohol. I hope it swallowed a knife, so I qan qut myself out. (Where’s the knife?) I’m looqing, I’m looqing…
Or maybe a qing will qome set me free.
You know what? The PR company that represents Qream — one of them, at least — sends me regular emails with information about their other qlients, but I’ve apparently been taken off the Qream list, which qills me. Or does it? Oqay, I found the knife.
And how was your weeqend?