There is an unwritten, cyclical occurrence that takes place every year that I have coined the term “Chocolate Season” for. Starting somewhere around October 31st when tiny, plastic,anemic approximations of Ninjas, pro wrestlers, superheros, and giant robots grace the neighborhood, all the way up until the last Easter Egg hunt has taken place and the carpet has been deloused of that hideous, omni-present green paper or plastic that has been cut into long strings, chocolate can be found somewhere.
The stuff inevitably makes its way into bowls, dishes, or decorative glass containers on the desks of office employees, or on the service counters of businesses where the counter is as far as your relationship 
goes with these places. The Hershey’s kiss, the “fun sized” Snickers, MilkyWay, or Krackle candybars: from October to May one will have absolutely no problem locating the rich, brown substance that gives us a little, if pathetic, smile.
We will even go as far as to eat the stuff after it has begun to show the signs of aging: that white crusty substance that starts forming around them. We even ignore the fact that the wrappings on the stuff may happen to display little ghosts and witches when it’s January or March.
Try to find a good run of time in this chocolate season window when there is no opportunity for manufacturers to wrap the stuff up in the color scheme of whatever holiday defines that particular month: the orange and purple foil of Halloween (Hershey’s discovered that simply by wrapping their kisses up in gold, brown, and red foil, they can cover a lot of chronological ground with Halloween, Thanksgiving, and just the whole feeling of Fall), the red and green of Christmas, the red pink and white of Valentine’s Day, and, finally, the pastel wrappings when the chocolate takes the form of the egg. What a brilliant way to present the comforting sugar-filled sludge: the egg. The size of the chocolate egg was pretty much limited to the size of the tiny, traditional, foil-wrapped egg, sans those of Cadbury things, until some time in the 90’s when every confectionary peddler discovered that they could create a more eye-catching, inflated version of the chocolate Easter egg. Russel Stovers, Reeses, Hershey’s, you name it.
I know that in recent years the problem of childhood obesity has risen to the forefront of the news, and to the attention of physicians and watch dog groups. Not to mention the hideous appearance of childhood Diabetes. Diabetes! That was something that your 68-year-old Aunt Florence would be dealing with in between tossing out her colostomy bags, and listening to the cops on her police scanner, but nowadays’ kids, who’s main concerns should be trying to get decent grades and worrying about the fates of their favorite cartoon characters, are pissing their childhoods away on monitoring their blood sugar and getting over their fear of needles fast so that they can waddle around the Earth for a few more years.
Looking back, though, I really can’t recall a time when chocolate season did not exist at a certain level. The biggest change I see is that there is much more of the stuff. I mean – We would empty out our Christmas stockings or Easter baskets, and munch on the crap for about three days until the supply was exhausted, but it seems that nowadays, the act of filling dishes and making these chocolate items available has become an act of hospitality or greeting.
I don’t really want to turn this into a rant about how unhealthy we are as a society. I mean, Hell – I smoke like a train, get very little exercise other than walking out to my car, and we actually tried our best to get the thirteen-year-old to go out trick-or-treating this year so that he could gather up some free chocolate for me and the girlfriend! Plus, I am the first one to grab hold of one of those Cadbury carmel eggs, wrestle the foil off of it, and devour the thing in two or three bites. I’m like a damn goldfish with the evil stuff to tell you the truth. I will sit there and just eat chocolate item after chocolate item until I am floating on the top of the aquarium on my side with a dark brown string dangling out of me all the way down to the gravel on its bottom.
My sister gave me a “fuckit bucket” for Christmas. Now, this is the height of gluttony. A big blue scrub bucket with the handle and everything, filled to the brim with Krackle bars, Hershey’s, Snickers, and MilkyWay bars. Three or four different varieties of Hershey’s kisses, and, just for good measure, some miniature Tootsie Pops, Blow Pops, and an ample supply of regular old Tootsie Rolls. It’s now January first, 2009, and I have pretty much exhausted the supply of chocolate in that bucket. Only the Tootsie and Blow Pops remain.
I have pretty much been existing on the stuff since Christmas Eve, and have also managed to stuff three different Christmas dinners, and four good home-cooked meals (one being chicken Kiev, a dish I am quite proud of, and about as healthy for you as two months in Trablinka in 1939) down my gullet where they just sat there, unmoving, if you know what I mean, until this morning.
I awoke this morning in horrible agony. My stomach felt as though there were an equal number of pissed-off Palestinians and Israelis in there doing what they do best when they are hanging out. I could barely get up out of bed and make my way into the bathroom. I agonized in there for a good twenty minutes until I passed what felt like a damn German motorcycle boot, complete with extra large, superficial buckles and chains just to make it look tough. Good God! I survived that ordeal, took my blood pressure medication, turned on the television, and immediately reached into that bucket and fished out a few rogue Krackle, Hershey’s, and MilkyWay bars that had escaped my view previously.
Some lessons in life we just learn way too late, and some we never learn at all, I guess. At least it’s a good six weeks or so until Valentine’s Day, right?