Peeps: Not just for Easter

It's been three weeks or so since the Easter weekend, so you'd think the Peeps would be put away, forgotten on a high shelf. Apparently, some people still feel the need to bring them out and parade them around. Even on camera.

I'm not talking about the sickly sweet, marshmallow yellow chick-like treats. I'm talking peeps in the extreme voyeuristic sense. And, this past week, I was assaulted, nay my eyeballs raped by Peeps.

I shall call him Edgar, which is not his real name, but if I use it here his identity may be threatened and he may feel the need to wield his mighty sword and smite me down. Edgar is a MSN webcammer, a friend from way back in my scholastic days and I thought while he was off-colour, witty and harmless, his webcam and his use of it isn't.

It started out innocently. "Hey, how are you? What's new? What have you been up to lately.?" Nothing much was the answer. He asked if I had a webcam, and since I hadn't seen him in the flesh since we left our hallowed halls, I thought I'd like to see into which this new-age Edgar had morphed. We chatted, laughing, reminiscing and basically getting caught up. That is until he asked me if I liked Peeps.

I'm not one for the sweet and the sugary. I prefer my snacks to be more savoury and I said so. "Not those Peeps," he said, adding that he had to stretch his legs. "Okay," I said. "Go to town." And that was when my computer and my eyes, brain and all other senses exploded. And not in a good way.

"Peekaboo, I see you," he typed in caps as if yelling at me to look. "NOOOOO!" I screamed in cyber-talk, my cursor rushing to the minimize button. "Hey! Where'd ya go," he typed.

"I think I'm blind," I responded, clicking the maximize when I knew he had sat down, ready to type and to see my response to his little escapade.

"My eyes, my eyes, Edgar! They're burning. Oh, it hurts, it hurts. Make it stop."

"Did I do that," he asked ever-so innocently. Yes, yes, he did and I don't think I'll ever look at a webcam without that vision permanently burned into my retinas.

"I need to stretch again," he responded. "NOOOOOOOO! I typed, in caps and repetitive OOO's so he would know not to stand up, or at least pull on a pair of pants.

"Do you have insurance," I asked, thinking I may just have to sue him for affronting my senses.

I'm not a prude by any stretch of imagination. I speak about spotted dick, for heaven's sake. But, when you're expecting an innocent "hey, how ya doin' buddy" conversation with the person who used to steal your fries in the cafeteria line and instead you're subjected to a smorgasborg of beans and franks and those evil Peeps, then you take a step back to say "Whoa, Nelly!" or Edgar, or Gertrude or whoever is on the other side of that webcam. You reach for the first aid kit and rumage around for the eyewash station you know you packed in there thinking, oh, I'll never use this.

But you will, and especially if you ever come across those Peeps again. I pray to dog you don't. Unless you're into that sort of thing. And, if you are, I have someone who may just be willing.