Creme Egg Apocalypse

evil-creme-egg

It’s 2057 and Creme Eggs rule the world. (…Wipe that grin off your face you filthy addict; this is no joking matter. None at all.)

Back in 2015, when Cadbury’s ditched its Dairy Milk chocolate for a shitty powder based alternative (also known as “standard cocoa mix chocolate” – blagh!), some dirty computer guy with a genius IQ and a fear of water emerged from his basement after three solid months of Call of Duty, no sun, sleep or vegetables, and managed to create a colossal Dairy Milk Creme Egg as a big “Fuck You” to the new lesser-form egg that was no longer able to sustain his gaming fetish (yup, he died COD style – head shot, one time – and was looking for a scapegoat).

Dirty Computer Guy’s Behemoth sent Cadbury’s into the red. All of a sudden the whole world wanted a gargantuan Dairy Milk Creme Egg; anything smaller than a million metres was sent to the guillotine or thrown from the Petronas Towers. In then meantime, our mild mannered gamer inhaled tornadoes of cash as people splashed out exorbitant amounts for a suck on his egg. Things where fine, albeit a little hysterical, for a while until…the giant egg grew a brain – scientists blamed global warming; something about temperature fluctuations infusing chocolate of certain size and sugar dosage with not only consciousness but an urgent need to take over the world – and that’s when the apocalypse happened.

To cut a long, disgusting story short; with the faculty of a newly sprouted brain, Dirty Computer Guy’s egg grew some arms and legs, made its way to the library and somehow managed to get a hold of a copy of Mein Kampf (it’s pretty boring sitting around all day being licked by frothing fools) – rallies were held, there was a war (victory by sloshy innards) and now an Alpha egg, better known as ‘Queen’ or more affectionately, ‘Giant Momma Egg’, sits in Trafalgar Square, wrapped in the familiar gold, red and blue foil of the once-upon-a-time Cadbury’s Creme Egg, blinding audacious onlookers with the sheerness of her glint whilst minion eggs pulsate out of her rear (we think?) at a rate too rapid for any sort of repose.

The few humans who survived thirty-year beat down by chocolate are currently in hiding, lamenting the Cult of Creme Egg from bygone years and wishing we had the savvy to see past our vile obsession before it was too late, which it now is. Or is it? The resistance is growing as we speak, as stragglers make their way underground (literally), and word on the street is that Don Ronner is in ‘da hood’ – perhaps the prophecies aren’t bullshit after all. In which case…

If this is you Don Ronner…HELP!PLEASE!LIKE, S.O.S TIMES INFINITY. And if this message so happens to make its way back to the nether-years…FUCK THE CREME EGGS. FUCK THEM UP! ALL OF THEM. DON’T BE WEAK; THEY WILL EAT YOU ALIVE.

Other posts you might like: