Choosy Morons, Choose Jif

I have recently learned of a terrible tragedy that has befallen our otherwise peaceful community. A tragedy so heinous, that it befouls the very air merely to speak of it.

Luckily, I’m only writing about it – so let’s have at ‘er shall we?

For some unknown reason, there is a severe shortage of Jif peanut butter on the shelves of local supermarkets and I am left nursing ulcers from imploded rage over it. Jiff peanut butter has been a daily staple for, like, only my whole life! It's the secret to my life force.

In vain, I have visited every store, supermarket, corner shop, and local grocers within a 20-mile radius. I can literally feel my sperm supply dwindling down to nothing even as I type this. I’m not sure how much longer I, or my sperm, can go without my Jif Extra Creamy. And if ‘Little Elvis’ doesn’t get his peanut butter sandwich he doesn’t go on stage, dig?

My junk probably has the consistency of chicken broth by now. What’s my girlfriend going to think?

It’s hard to feel like “the man” when you’re blowing powdered milk during sex. Lord knows I could use all the help I can get! After all the toxic poisons I voluntarily ingested in University, my children will inevitably rival the alien crew of the Starship Enterprise without some assistance – namely, my regular fix of Jif.

Maybe if my mom hadn’t been such a “choosy” bitch back when I was kid I might not have had this desperate affliction in the first place.

As it is now, there is no other peanut butter besides Jif. I’d rather spread dog shit on my toast than use Kraft, Skippy or any of the sweetened no-name brands available at the Bulk Barn. And the unsweetened varieties taste like pure evil.

Come home to daddy, Jif, come home…