I don’t know you guys, but seeing Bing Cherry here chilling all alone really has me bummed out. Like the little guy just got straight up abandoned by the rest of the pit crew, you know? It just seems so unnatural, so wrong. If this was cousin Maraschino running solo, it’s no big deal. Maraschino does what Maraschino does. That’s a one cherry pool party on ice, anytime, anywhere. But Bing Cherry? Bing Cherry isn’t supposed to be without a big ole family of cherries. Bing Cherry isn’t supposed to be isolated like that. Bing Cherry isn’t supposed to be cherry orphan. That’s… well, heartbreaking. Give me a moment guys, this shit is making me downright EMOTIONAL. #shedonetearforacherryinneed
Does anyone know of a non-profit specializing in cherry adoptions? There’s so many ridiculously specific charities out there I assume there has to be one for cherries, right? Right? Anyone? Hello? Don’t make me set one up myself, you guys. I’m not good at paperwork. I’m also greedy. I’d give myself way, way too large of a salary, turning donated dollars into dental plans and domestic dealings, skimming off the top for administrative fees and holding penalties, pumping up my own retirement plan, billing it as a mandatory expense. It’d be a shell of a charity, a hollow hole to suck generously donated funds, preying on weeping hearts, crying foot-soldiers of donation set in misguided empathetic motion by the tragic story of our orphaned cherry.
It’d be so easy, you guys. Like, too easy. I’d run a commercial with some Sarah McLaughlin, or Celine Dion, or Dido, or Adele or, whatever the hell music is making all those dope emotional gold diggers and cougars with disposable income weep these days. They’d get all misty eyed and shit, reaching for checkbooks without the slightest inclination to do any real legwork. Who needs research when you can just patch the searing gaps of your heart with feel good cash, right? And the money would just straight up pour in, wine and tear stained check after wine and tear stained check, all covered in a nice little layer of ground-up Zoloft powder.
Inevitably, I’d start licking that powder, consumed in cash thirsty madness, a monetary lust, collecting minute glints of highs, eventually demanding more, upping the dosage, huffing check after check until it wasn’t enough, scourging forward out into the deep dark crevices of soul, searching out the next big thrill, spiraling ever downward in a cash-happy tailspin of drugs – cocaine, crack, heroin, oh my! Next thing you know, I’m a living after school special, broke, on the streets, dodging IRS and DEA agents, desperately trying to pimp the only friend I have left in the cold, miserable world. Yup, poor little orphaned Bing Cherry.
Annnnd, you know…. I think I’m just gonna stop. Wow, that was starting to get pretty dark. Kind of fucked up, huh? Anyway, all I’m trying to say is don’t separate a Bing Chery from its family. It does not end well. At all. For me. Or the cherry.