Turning The Green Light

Because of his tireless efforts, millions of airplane passengers have staved off the pangs of hunger, mountaineers have summoned unnatural energy in order to summit peaks, and overzealous sports fans have had something to throw at the television in their frustration. Born for the spotlight, Mr. Peanut has been delivering the goods for decades while maintaining an unpretentious air of high class, perfectly balanced with a disarming charm. In a way he is like any other high-class individual, except he’s a peanut…an actual peanut. He’s not a man. He’s a legume. Roasted and salted for your enjoyment. He’s dapper and dignified. But he’s not above slinging a product. No, he’s a salesman…an old fashioned pitchman all the way down to his crunchy, delicious core. But he’s not going to make a fool of himself and beg for your business. He doesn’t have to. His style is classy. A wink and a smile, a couple of steps, side to side, a spin of the cane, a tip of the hat and before you realize what’s happening, you’ve got a face full of classic honey roasted tastiness packed in so tight it’s threatening to obstruct your airway. The squirrel has come home to his tree and is sniffing and nibbling insatiably. Munching futilely to quell its hunger with every desperate bite. He leans on his cane to pause and takes note of your sad, embarrassing condition as you search the can for the last of its offerings. Part of him is satisfied; almost impressed with himself that he can elicit such a rabid response. But he keeps that sort of self-congratulation in check. It’s not classy to dwell on your successes. At the same time there is a tinge of guilt as he witnesses your self-debasement in the name of salty snacks. He knows that peanuts are high in fat and sodium and that they might kill you if you are given to anaphylaxis. He feels partially responsible for your loss of control. Yet, he knows his place. Nutritionist or psychiatrist he is not. So, Mr. Peanut refrains and allows for the natural flow of indulgence to play out free of interruption or judgment. He inspects his white gloves to ensure they were not dirtied from the previous piggy proceedings. And bids a polite farewell leaving you to recuperate and to tend to some much needed personal hygiene. Mr. Peanut is satisfied with his work. But years of late night parties, jet setting and countless corporate events are beginning to take their toll. His shell is a little dry these days and has more cracks than it used to. His monocle would be replaced with glasses if his doctor had anything to do with it. But, its like Mr. Peanut keeps saying, “I’m never going to lose my freshness.” For as long as there are hungry patrons, there’s going to be a can of his patented snacks, a metal lid to peel away, and the possibility to slice open your finger and end up in the emergency room.