Die, Styrofoam Peanuts, Die!

Photo by 24thcentury, under a Creative Commons license
Whoever invented Styrofoam peanuts needs to die a laboriously slow, painful death. Even if I weren’t an environmentalist, Styrofoam peanuts would still be near—if not AT—the top of my shit list. They stick to everything: your hands, your clothing, your rugs—even your cats, who of course make things worse by cannonballing into the white abyss, spewing the putrid things everywhere. If that’s not enough, Styrofoam has the temerity to crumble into static-cling-loving confetti that you will be breathing in and cleaning off your floors and furniture FOR DAYS. I mean, you must really REALLY loathe someone to mail them a box full of Styrofoam peanuts.
I don’t care if you “recycled” them from another source, I’d rather have my exposed liver julienned by a flock of psychotic, inbred geese than try to shake off another fistful of Styrofoam peanuts, while I scream ineffectually down the darkened hallways of my own private Hell.


Today, the guy in front of me at the checkout line walked out of the store with large bottle of Polar Springs water—his sole purchase—in a plastic bag. Jesus wept while I kicked the doofus in the ‘nads. j/k j/k j/k. Jesus was busy.


