Shout Out to My Peeps

It all started with science. Weird science, yes, but science. Our physics-wielding friend Dave was trying to "educate" his children on Easter with a little good-natured Peep jousting. I could have been mildly amused and logged it away for future use, but who sees a video of Peeps jousting and doesn't want to immediately do that?! I choose to believe no one. Let me believe it, it makes me feel better.

Anyway, we fought our poor remaining two Peeps in a death match that very day. 

We were hooked. I even went to the grocery store for more.

"We're sold out of Peeps."

What? Have those words EVER been uttered? One thing I am sure of every year is the Technicolor rows of unwanted Peeps, languishing on clearance shelves until they petrify and get tossed. Did the secret get out about the jousting? I vowed to keep looking.

The next day I sought out potential jousting champions at the behemoth store down the road. You know the one. The one that rhymes with "ball cart". NO PEEPS! Seriously? The day after Easter and none? It was just weird.

Not to be deterred, I tried one more large chain store that sounds much better when pronounced in a French accent. Props to my Peep Scout Tara for the heads up.

Finally. PEEPS! Glorious rows of Peeps. They were all there. I snagged a pack in every color.

Side note-food should never be these colors!

Here is where I was probably put on some grocery store watch list.

I hauled all my peeps (still talking about the sugar birds, not my family and friends) to the register. The lovely woman behind the counter said, "looks like someone at your house really likes Peeps."

As my good friend Amy said, "You should have just said yes. In the immortal Ghostbusters tradition-'When someone asks you if you are a god, you say yes!' So you should have said yes."

But I didn't. I looked this sweet, unassuming woman in the face and said, "Oh, no. We're going to fight them."

Crickets.

Of course I kept going.

"Like jousting, in a sort-of microwave Thunderdome? No?"

Really getting a weird look now.

"You put toothpicks under their wings and face them at each other then turn on the microwave. As they heat up, they puff up and lunge at each other."

Finally, a wave of understanding crossed her face and she said, "Oh! You have boys."

Sigh...

Could have let it go, but no.

"Nope, three girls."

I lost her for good there. She didn't talk much after that.

So later, back at the house...

"When is it time for Peep jousting?"

"You said we would do Peep jousting!"

"Can we start Peep jousting?"

The natives were getting restless, obviously. They had already called colors and were grabbing paper. The oldest was coordinating a score chart and the jockeying for positions had begun.

The youngest loudly claimed, “I’m the pink one! I’m the pink one! I’m the pink one!”

I wonder what color she wanted.

The middle child just said simply, “I’m purple.”

The youngest was impatient: “Let’s do this thing!”

The oldest was the judge in the first match as the buttons were pushed, the door closed and the joust begun.

The youngest was a trash-talker. “I am gonna DOM-i-nate!”

The middle child said, “No.”

I uttered (in my best Vince McMahon voice) "Two Peeps enter, one Peep leaves! Let's get ready to rumbuuuuuule."

Turns out, the youngest did dominate. “Ha! I stabbed you first!”

Maybe this was gratuitous violence. 

Still better than them eating the Peeps.

She moved on to face the challenger-the eldest. This is when they discovered the inherent tragedy of Peep jousting. The champion never made it to round two.

 They queued up their next contenders and started off. “You are going down!” taunted the oldest.

“If I stab, I stab,” asserted the youngest, with logic I certainly couldn’t argue with.

This time, it was looking like a stalemate. Both Peeps were blowing up, but without any actual lance (toothpick) contact.

“Um, the one that gets biggest wins,” said the oldest quickly. The impending tie had sent her grasping for an alternate method of victory.

“Maybe it is just a practice round,” the youngest said diplomatically.

I noticed that the middle child was quietly scraping the burned remains of the first jousters off the plate and eating them.

“Quit eating Peeps!” I told her.

“But the Peeps are delicious!!!!” she said with despair.

The rounds went on and on, getting more heated. No pun intended. I finally stepped in to shut the thing down.

“Final joust, All Peep Open!” I declared. “Pick your Peep!”

Everyone got involved, Daddy and all.

The youngest was doing a happy dance, singing, “All Peeps to the arena!”

As they were all crowded onto a plate and started to heat up, the girls started chanting, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

Daddy said, “Wait a minute! You totally have my lance pointing way off to the side. You are all cheating! This is rigged!”

The girls just giggled as the Daddy Peep was put out of its misery.

 

Turns out, clearance Peeps can provide way more entertainment that snack value. Hooray for Peeps. And a mop. There was sugar everywhere!

Oh, and there was science in there somewhere. I’m sure of it!