Mr. Rochester took me on a little outing the other day that I won’t soon forget.  We visited a rather reclusive friend of his that owns a factory in town.  He makes candy – yes, a candy factory.  I had never met Mr. Wonka before, he keeps to himself, but apparently he and Mr. Rochester used to get a bit rowdy after a few pints at the local pub and steal ladies bonnets to perform their version of “I’m a Little Teapot” on the bar.

It was an unusual visit, for many reasons: one of which is Mr. Wonka had had some sort of contest for 5 children and their chaperones to tour the factory; decades of isolation and all of a sudden he’s Walt Disney.  But, there was chocolate involved and Lord knows I hate to complain.

There was also a large amount of little, drum beating, singing men.  I am certainly happy to meet anyone, but these guys kind of sneak up on you when you least expect it.  I never could quite figure out where they were the rest of the time?

As for the visitors, I grant you I am not a mother (although, with Chuckles Rochester here, sometimes I wonder) but honestly, who is raising these children today?  This little guy Charlie seemed to be fine and his grandfather was just delightful; I even got caught in a little two-step with Grandpa Joe in one of the hallways… before he spun me into a mango flavored decal and I needed help to be removed from the wall.  But the rest of the group, heavens – I have never seen such ill-mannered little imps.  One boy dove right into the chocolate river.  Here we are, in a wonderland of confection, and this beast has his eye on an entire river of chocolate.  Gluttony is still a sin, correct?  And when he “falls” in (because I would not put it past that slovenly ingrate to just throw himself in), he goes up a pipe and gets stuck.  All is simple mother could do was whine about her son potentially suffocating in an airless container.  Well I am sorry that your child is a drain plug but what will I be doing for Wonka bars now that all the chocolate had to be thrown out?

I met a young girl whose photo appears under Entitlement in the dictionary.  This prima donna waltzed about the place as if she owned it and then attacked a group of squirrels that were working in the nut room. She got hers though; those squirrels retaliated and shoved her down the garbage chute.  I chose not to dwell on what Wonka was feeding squirrels to produce such a work ethic.  I tend to think unionizing squirrels might just bring on the end of civilization so I left the room as soon as the salty-tongued diva became compost.

We were all treated to Miss Grabby Hands, whose claim to fame was gum smacking, as she swiped a piece of gum and ended up becoming a blueberry.  She actually became a blueberry; they had to roll her out like a dung cart.  (I asked Mr. Wonka if he had a piece he could spare, Bertha certainly likes to flap her gums.)

I am not one to tell anyone how to raise their kids, but for one rascal, had his parents shut off both the television and that smart mouth of his and that bright whippersnapper might of made something of himself – he had real potential.  As it is now, he will always be in someone’s pocket.

Mr. Wonka, being the eccentric he is, handed the keys to the factory to Charlie and asked if we all wanted to shoot through the ceiling in an all glass elevator.  Since I think I should not find involuntary decortication enjoyable, Mr. Rochester and I bid them both adieu and mentioned we would come back next time we were in town.  After all the waves and pleasantries were given, that Charlie leaned in to me and told me next time, there would be an admission charge.  Little jackanapes.

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