I don't think you're ready for this, Jelly.

Today was a harrowing day filled with a little bit of hustlin' and whole lotta bustlin'. Hence, I decided, what better way to relax than to catch up on my correspondence. So, I opened up the old mailbag and grabbed a doozy. A reader, "YouGoGirl71," to be specific, popped the following ponderation for me, and boy did YGG71 open up a can of worms: "Dear What's a Donzer, What's the difference between jelly and jam? The way I see it, there is none. Peace in the Middle East, YouGoGirl71"

Naturally, my jaw dropped to the floor. What's the difference? Oh; for real? Because, there's a huge difference. Jelly's a Slut.

In response to YGG71's apparent ignorance, in turn, I am going to, well, turn the tables and focus all of my attention toward Jelly. It's time someone did. So, if you don't mind humoring me today as I give Jelly a much-needed talking to.

Dear Jelly,

WTF, yo? I am so over your crap. If it wasn't for YouGoGirl71, I might not have even grown a pair strong enough and pimp enough to call you out on your supreme defecation. But, here goes. You are such a skank. Remember when you used to kick it old school, and you rocked my world? Back then, you looked a little something like this:

But, then, something happened, and you decided kickin it in your own jar wasn't good enough for you? You went and hussied it up all professional like with your old prom-date, Peanut Butter.
That's fine. It's the 2000's. People live in sin. We get it. You and PB were in love. But you had to do it. You had to step out. Seriously, though; have you no shame? Was this really necessary? You have to go and advertise that you're all whorey and lalala? Just who are you trying to attract with a label like "Passion Fruit"? Just because Peanut Butter was home sick one day and some new boy stares you up and down a couple times, maybe grabs your ass in the reference section when Mrs. Honeycutt isn't looking, you go and sell yourself like this? Nasty.

Fine. Whatever. But, come on! Were you really this easy? How quickly our naive friend loses her dignity, eh? Texas Beer just sidles on into town and you jump into his jar like you've forgotten where you came from, Jelly? For Shame!

And, Jelly, I seriously don't even want to know what this means. A older guy dims the lights, puts on a little John Tesh, lets you sip a little wine, and all of a sudden you're choking his cherry? I don't even know who you are anymore. Oh, wait. Yeah I do. You're "Bad", Jelly!

Well you know what happens to skanknasty alcoholic Bad Jellies? They rub their dirty parts all over the warty parts of other dirty jellies.

And they end up with these:

Yeah. You are going to procreate and make loose little no-moraled junior skank fetuses just like you. And your little offspring will spread their legs all around town and end up like this:

For real, Jelly? A jar full of eel between your legs? How nice. Why don't you go slut yourself around a little more. I don't know. Join a roll or something.

Oh, been there done that, too, huh? How about you give a donut a whirl or two around the block?
Jelly, just because he buys you dinner, doesn't mean you have to let him take you home. And, come on. Are you liquid? Are you a gel? You know what you're sure as hell not? Gummy. Now get the hell out of that market, and pick an identity.

Are you beans?
Are you a delicious Thanksgiving garnish?

Are you kickass 1980's leisurewear?

Jelly, my sister: get over yourself! You have seriously gone too far. What if the Jelly Babies get a load of this - and, yes, I do mean that literally?: Homegirl, it's time to pull out. This has gone on long enough. There is still time to salvage some dignity. No more hooking up with mint. No more rolling around with Spicy Boisenberry. Just end this charade. You owe it to the world.

Regards,

Your Friends at this blog is eggsalady

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