It turns out there's only one thing that capuchins really, really love - and that's sweet stuff. If you give them a big vat of say, marshmallow fluff, and you let them go at it, what they'll do is eat their body weight in marshmallow fluff, walk away, they'll vomit, and they'll come back and eat their body weight again. And they'll vomit. And they'll do that for as long as there is marshmallow fluff out there. They love marshmallow fluff.
How could I remain unyielding? His words penetrated the flimsy barriers I'd set up around my heart. I'd meant to set up a barbed wire fence, but the barbs ended up being covered with marshmallows. He slipped through my defenses easily. He touched his forehead to my hand, and my marshmallow heart melted.
What is the spirituality we need for the 21st century? We face a choice: to retire from this fray into some marshmallow paradise where we can massage away the heat of the day, the questions of the time, the injustice of the age, and live like pious moles in the heart of a twisted world. Or, we can gather our strength - our spiritual strength - for the struggle it will take to wake up from this pious sleep.
Joan D. Chittister
I put my hand on the altar rail. 'What if... what if Heaven is real, but only in moments? Like a glass of water on a hot day when you're dying of thirst, or when someone's nice to you for no reason, or... ' Mam's pancakes with Toblerone sauce; Dad dashing up from the bar just to tell me, 'Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite'; or Jacko and Sharon singing 'For She's A Squishy Marshmallow' instead of 'For She's A Jolly Good Fellow' every single birthday and wetting themselves even though it's not at all funny; and Brendan giving his old record player to me instead of one of his mates. 'S'pose Heaven's not like a painting that's just hanging there for ever, but more like... Like the best song anyone ever wrote, but a song you only catch in snatches, while you're alive, from passing cars, or... upstairs windows when you're lost...
Contemplating Crazy Things I contemplate a lot of things, Like why the sky's a shade of green, And how it is that lions fly While birds with wings refuse to try. It's strange how snowmen never melt, And sweaty feet are sweetly smelt, And how so commonly we see Young hippos nesting in a tree. I wonder how they get up there, And why the world is mostly square, And how huge every nose would be If we had only one, not three. I cannot guess why hills are flat, Nor can I say why twigs are fat. I do not know how mud keeps clean, Or why small kittens act so mean. And while I'm thinking all this stuff, Consider black marshmallow fluff, And how the rainbows twist and coil Around the clouds down to the soil Imagine if our teeth were white I'd want to keep them out of site! It's crazy stuff I see in dreams, To contemplate so many things.
Richelle E. Goodrich
It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.