Dear Aunt Becky,

what is the name of the tool you use that allows you to see what people are googling to find you…or something like that but I’m sure you know what I mean! 🙂

Well, Prankster, I’m not sure if you mean finding you personally or finding your blog, because as far as I know, those are two different answers. I’ve seen websites that boast that you can “find out who is searching for you” (I assume by your name) but from a purely practical standpoint, I do not know how. Do you know how HARD it is to track down a troll just to make sure they’re not sitting in the house next to yours?

Well, it is.

I assume you can only find out who is searching for you personally by their IP address and if it works, well, you Pranksters will have to let me know.

If you meant, “how do I know what people are using to find my blog,” the short answer is that I don’t care to know. Most of the search terms that get people hear are variations of my blog name or “boring things” and the things I ignore are those which are so disgusting and depraved that I will not repeat them.

I happen to use a program called awstats to measure the site stats. With that comes a search term analyzer. It, if I hadn’t blocked all but the top five search terms, would tell me what people use to find my blog. There are other programs like Google Analytics around to help you find what people use to find you. Although, if you talk dirty like me, you may never, ever want to know.

Did I answer your question, Prankster?

—————–

Dear Aunt Becky,

I had no idea you did an advice column.  That is what I am trying to start a career doing as well.  Any advice?  Is there a network for us advice bloggers out there?

I think I might use the term “advice” rather loosely in this case, but yes, what started out as a joke turned into a weekly advice column. I even spoke about it with the Mouthy Housewives at Blogher10 this year.

I’ve never found a network for advice bloggers, although I do imagine one exists out there. The beauty – and drawback – of the internet is that there really IS something for everyone.

As for advice on starting your own column, my best advice is to try and make sure that your commenters don’t rip the asker to shreds. I happen to have the best audience on the internet *waves* HI PRANKSTERS! and it’s rare that I have to stop anyone from going after someone else, but it has happened.

The mob mentality that happens once a blogger takes issue with another isn’t helpful to anyone anyway, and once there’s blood in the water, it’s like everyone wants to start getting in on the act (well I’M OFFENDED BECAUSE YOU…) I feel that when I answer a question on my site, it’s almost like a mini-guest post and they deserve respect since they cannot come behind the scenes and delete any inflammatory comments themselves.

Other than that, I wish you the best of luck, Prankster. Email me if you have any other questions.

——————

I wanted to let you know that you can, in fact, advertise here now. I put together an incredibly dull page on the whole thing if you are interested. All are welcome (although I figure it’s mostly bloggers who will want the space). The page I’m directing you, I warn you, it’s beyond dull if you’re not into that sort of thing.

My tastes have always run from the garish to the downright tacky. Whenever I’d date someone new, my friends teased me, “Show him the BECKY BELT” and if he laughed and shook his head in a “oh THAT wily Becky” kind of way, well, he was a keeper. If he didn’t, he wasn’t. Any guy who wants to dump you because you like glitter and sequins and hot pink isn’t someone who loves you for the right reasons. Just saying.

Anyway, it’s the stuff of legends, my tastes, and I’m pretty okay with that. If you’re going to be larger than life, it might as well be because your tastes suck.

Shoes, especially, my Awesomely Tacky Light Shines upon. I own a pair of black pumps, but they were for a wedding I was in. The rest of my shoe closet isn’t so unrefined.

Yesterday, I finally got in the mail a pair of shoes I’d put in my Amazon.com shopping basket ages ago. I’d finally remembered to buy blue hair dye for my peek-a-boo highlights in the back and was all WELL HELLO THERE AWESOME SHOES and bought them.

They showed up and the kids swarmed because normally packages that show up are for them. Plus, kids are pretty self-absorbed like that, which is kinda something that I respect about them.

I explained that the package wasn’t, in fact, for them this time, and the boys went outside to look at constellations. My daughter, however, made like she didn’t hear me. She’s a stubborn one, my girl.

I said it again as I opened the package and still she ignored me, her big eyes on the box in my lap. Then, I uttered the words I shouldn’t have: “SHOES.”

Now I said, “These are shoes for Mommy, Amelia. Aren’t they pretty?”

What she heard was,” ‘BLAH BLAH BLAH, PREETTTY PRESENT FOR AMELIA, AMELIA!”

And then I whipped my new shoes out to show her.

To be fair, they look like shoes a child could wear, because of my lack of taste and all, but really, the heel is high and she’s not two years old yet. She already wears a small heel on her Mary Jane’s (her insistence) but her shoes can fit my big toe.

Well, all she saw was PRETTY SHOES.

So when I took HER pretty shoes and put them on MY feet, well, that Pranksters, that was unacceptable.

She screamed.

She wailed.

She tried to pry them off my feet.

When I took them off, confused by her ire, she tried to put them on her own tiny sausage feet. It didn’t work. This served to make her more angry so she screamed harder. Oh, my daughter has a temper, but this was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

My sons came running in to see if she’d been caught in a bear trap or had been run over by a truck and when they saw her standing with my shoes, they stopped and stared, mouths agape.

We all stared at her as she shrieked.

Pranksters, she yelled, cried, and beat her tiny fists against the floor for a full forty-five minutes until I put her into bed.

Guess this means that she’s inherited my tastes…

…and my temper.

Pranksters, I should have you know that Amelia spent the entire day yesterday yelling, “HI” and “THANK YOU” to the computer. I’m pretty sure she knows you were in the computer waving at her, so she was waving back. The gift of sight runs in my family…maybe she has it.

OR MAYBE SHE’S JUST RAD.

Either way, my daughter thinks that her Pranksters are full of the awesome. She’s right.

This week, however, has NOT been full of the awesome. My dog died yesterday. So did my transmission. I’d blame John C. Mayer, but I think that I need his karma like I need a stomach full of worms.

The only good thing about having a week of The Suck is that it’s forcing me to think about all of the ugly, unpleasant things I need to do that I’ve been putting off because I don’t want to deal with it. I get hyper-productive when I’m in The Shit.

So I’m doing the blog equivalent of dying my hair. I’ve needed to spend a good deal of time thinking about what exactly I want to do with the space other than where I write and while I wanted to just write I LOVE BACON and I HEART PRANKSTERS everywhere, I’m not exactly sure that would be helpful.

I’ve added an area at the top that includes direct links to each one of my five shirts called SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH SHIRTS. Because, obviously. I want to make a photogallery of the shirts you’ve bought, too, so if you have any snapshots, send ’em to me (aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com).

I’m starting to think that I want to sell my own ads. Nothing fancy or anything. Is that a terrible idea?

Update: AM selling my own ads. Please click here if you want to be bored OR buy an ad.

It’s likely you’ll see a ton of different things around here since I am still stuck on my back staring at the wall and have very little to do besides pray people submit more stories to Band Back Together and Mushroom Printing. So, I suppose, pardon my dust.

And I promise Amelia (my sons call her Dr. Mimi) will help me make another vlog soon.

Also: she just ran up to me yelling, COOKIE, COOKIE! Who gave her a cookie, Pranksters? And where is mine?

Pranksters, you have watched my daughter grow tall and strong. You have cheered her on, loved her from afar (and from – in rare cases – close by), and helped her by helping me. You are the Prankster Army of aunts and uncles she so deserves and one day, I hope that you all can meet my Princess of the Bells in person.

I wanted her to tell you something that she’s been waiting a long time to say:

Dear Speech Therapist:

I am writing to you today on behalf of my daughter, Amelia.

It took me a long time to admit that the birth defect that my daughter had been born with had caused her to develop abnormally. No one wants to imagine their child has problems and all that we’ve dealt with in Amelia’s short life have been problems. Potential problems. Wait-and-see problems. Real problems, too.

Thanks to an improper aligning of cells around 28 days gestation, my daughter’s brain developed (in small part) outside of her head. At three weeks of age, she had surgery to remove this brain matter and fix the skull that hadn’t properly formed.

In her short life, she’s dealt with more than most and she’s handled it with more grace and dignity than I ever could.

So today, I write to you on her behalf.

You are her second therapist, hired by Early Intervention to help my daughter find her words. I like to picture them floating around her beautiful brain like fireflies, someone like you hired to help her find and catch them. If I could have done it without you, believe me, I would have. Accepting help is not something that I excel in.

But I have realized that you have a talent that I do not and I reached out and asked you to help my daughter, the girl with curls like a halo, to help her find her words.

The first therapist Amelia had was fantastic…but was allergic to my cats. She stuck it out and worked with my daughter as long as she possibly could, attempting to EYE OF THE TIGER through it until my daughter was able to find a replacement.

Then we found you. Therapist Number Two.

I’ve met you twice now. My daughter likes you. That says a lot. Amelia is rather picky about Her People.

Three weeks ago, you called off services, claiming you couldn’t make it. Some sort of meeting you wouldn’t be back from. How you didn’t know that ahead of time, I wasn’t sure, but I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. It happens. Things come up.

Two weeks ago, you called off again. Sick this time. Again, that’s fine. Sick happens. I’d rather you not bring sickness into my home anyway. I’d just had surgery and needed to be sick again like I needed to be kicked in the face by a donkey.

Yesterday, you had your scheduler call. This time, you claimed that you were allergic to my cats. You wanted to continue services by meeting at the mall. THE MALL. Along with the Mall Walkers and teenagers, we were somehow supposed to meet with you at the mall. Right. That makes sense. Because the entire point of having services in the home is because children my daughter’s age learn better in their own homes. The mall is not an environment that is conducive to learning and as an “educator” you should know better.

What offends me most about this is not that you wanted to meet at the mall. It’s that you are lying to me. If you had such a problem with my cats (I have 2 cats, not 23), you should have said so three weeks ago when I had the ability to start the search for someone new then.

Instead, you’ve given me three flimsy excuses and now my daughter has had no therapy in three weeks. Three. Weeks.

While that is not a long time to an adult or even, perhaps, a three-year old, this is a huge amount of time for a child her age. You should know that and you should be ashamed of yourself for putting her in this position.

You left me no choice but to fire you. So I did. I can’t have someone so obviously flaky trying to teach my daughter to find her words.

But I’m hurt that you’d do this to her. She’s had a hard life. You’re not making it any easier on her.

My daughter, though, she’s a fighter. She’s doing just fine on her own. She’s come up with a number of words you never taught her because you’d never bothered. Really, it’s your loss.

You’re lucky I’m too infirm to hunt you down and make you blow bubbles with her.

I honestly hope that your other patients are treated with more respect and regard than my daughter has been.

Sincerely,

Aunt Becky

This spring, I made a deliberate attempt at making my house look as though a couple of serial killers didn’t live here. The 70’s, you see, seemed to be a time of Great Bushes, and the people whom we had purchased our home from hadn’t bothered to *snort* take care of their Bushes. So we had a Bush Overgrowth. *cackles*

Bush-Gate 2010 was born and I removed all 2,083 of the overgrown bushes in an effort to convince the neighborhood that perhaps my house was not populated by Dexter’s Biggest Fans. (you get your whore hands off my television husband)

And yet now, six months later, I ordered my groceries PeaPod AND attempted to use “dry” shampoo (turns out it’s bullshit) because I am so infirm. My skin is turning a milky-shade of white as I have been stuck on the couch, my muscles atrophying into puddles of goo. No longer can I say, “WHICH WAY TO THE GYM?” then kiss my arms as I flex.

Oh no.

I am a slug. A cockroach. An OLD PERSON. If I fell, I couldn’t get up. I need one of those Life Alert things. (much as one of my Pranksters suggested)

More than that, I’m afraid that my neighbors will think that I’ve been chopped up into tiny bits and shoved down the garbage disposal because they haven’t seen me. Every time the phone rings, I figure it’s the cops investigating a possible homicide at my residence. You know, since Becky Sherrick Harks hasn’t been seen in nearly two weeks and even had groceries delivered (I hate ordering PeaPod).

I may not be particularly smart OR handy, but I am the person who is outside puttering around and staring at the car, willing whatever problem its having (JOHN C MAYER) to be fixed by sheer mental power alone. I’ll stand there staring, waiting until the solution jumps out at me, or my neighbor comes and points out out. I’ll let YOU guess which comes first.

So for me not to be outside at all is troublesome.

I’d guess that the neighborhood is going to be covered with HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? signs soon. Not because I’m popular, just because if someone goes missing in your neighborhood, do you REALLY want to say, “Oh, I did NOTHING about it?”

No. No you do not.

There will be a search of the neighborhood, I’d bet and maybe even some of those rescue body dogs. Hopefully the dogs will uncover another murder since I am not actually dead. Merely pasty and slug-like.

Eventually, one of the kids will inform the search parties, or the weeping “WHY GOD WHY” ladies that have never known me, yet feel compelled to cry at my “death” that I am not exactly dead, merely bored and stuck on the couch.

The search people will be mad, of course, but really, who do they have to blame but themselves?

I would have told them I wasn’t dead or missing.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’ve got a bit of an issue. I hate my family. But at the same time, I cannot help but love them. My wife becomes extremely exasperated at their antics, into which they continually drag me. As my wife put it to me recently, I go through cycles. I’ll be in a phase where I’ll gladly hang out with them and socialize and whatnot, until I realize once again what fuckwads they are, and I’ll have nothing to do with them for another month, until shenanigans begin once more.

In addition to continually getting caught up in the drama, I find myself becoming increasingly frustrated at the way they live. I’m frustrated that my brothers take advantage of my mother, that my mother cannot get her finances straight to save her life, that my other brother cannot save his own relationship/finances/family, that my step father will not fix his health issues (which are of the sort which could be fixed with some effort). I guess I somehow feel as though I dragged myself out of the hole from which I came, why can’t they?

My question is thus twofold. How do I find a happy medium in my association with my family, and how do I accept that they are who they are and if they want to change they’ll call it into existence without my help or agitation?

Mystern

On the one hand, Prankster Mystern, I want desperately to be tragically glib in my answer here, and say something about creating a Pavlovian response to punch yourself in the face every time you feel as though you need to change your family from being the fuckwads they are into the more responsible people the can be.

On the much less medicated other, I think most of us can deeply sympathize with quandary. I don’t know a single one of us who doesn’t have at least one family member or close friend who doesn’t make the sorts of decisions that make us want to stab ourselves in the face with dull pencils.

But as the child of addicts, I can tell you (seriously) this: you cannot accept responsibility for other people.

So that’s my honest suggestion to every single one of you, my darling Pranksters, (and something I should tattoo on myself): your only responsibility is to yourself. The very moment you begin feeling as though you are frustrated with their behavior, you need to take a step back and assess. Can you continue contact without driving yourself to drink heavily? Is this a relationship that has merits?

And if the answer is “I don’t fucking know, Aunt Becky, shut your whore mouth,” come and sit next to me, because I think that’s how we all feel most of the time.

Family, man. Family.

(There’s a reason I adopted the Internet.)

Dear Aunt Becky,

I wrote to you about a crush in the past, I thought it was crazy, It kinda of turned into a bootie call.. though I will clarify been friends for a time prior, so maybe it means friends with benefits..

So I am confused, I know he doesn’t want a relationship (a committed one anyways) he is very honest and open, I totally appreciate this.. But here is my confusion. What went from just sex, he now calls making love.. I don’t understand… anyway, I love this guy dearly he is like my best friend, I was afraid to lose this friendship.. I wanna know should I tell him I wanna back off on the sex a bit? It’s phenomenal.. I have never had a g-spot orgasm until I met him; never mind the mind blowing regular O’s I get.. It’s like we were make for each other sexually… I think I am okay with my feelings making sure I don’t fall for him.. But I wanna fall in love with a man who wants to be with me..not just a guy who will have sex with me as I am (i am overweight and it doesn’t bother him)

I am afraid I am damaged..because I haven’t fallen for this guy, I think my past relationship (baby daddy) ruined me.

I am sorry this is confusing huh? should I end the sex and move on.. but hopefully keep the friendship? because losing the friendship would break my heart.. or should I just keep have mind blowing sex with him until i find someone to love?

Prankster, I don’t think you’re damaged for not falling for this guy, I think you’re protecting your heart. It sounds as though he’s made it clear that while you guys can have steamy sex (which sounds fabulous, by the by), he’s not interested in dating you. And you know you want more than that. Which says a lot about you.

I sort of want to dance around the room singing some sort of Prince song (Pussy Control, perhaps?) with you because I love you for it. You deserve BOTH a guy who can make your vagina do the tango AND make your heart flippity-flop in your chest. Don’t forget it.

Now, as far as your current situation, maybe it’s time to sit down and see what’s what. If you don’t want to lose the friendship you have, it sounds like you guys need to have A Talk and figure out where the other stands (he’s sending out some wicked mixed messages). Otherwise, it’s going to be hella awkward when one of you meets someone that you do want to settle down with.

Prankster, please remember being overweight is NOT a reason not to have someone want to have The Sex with you. Don’t sell yourself short! And can I say that I heart you? Because I do. xo.

Dear Pranksters,

Do you remember this post? I do. Well, we got a response from the asker in the comments of the post. I’ll paste it below:

Thank you all so much for your support, and thanks Aunt Becky for the links and info.

I did leave!

After he threatened to kill me if I left him, then told me to get out, my son and I moved in with my parents while my soon-to-be-ex husband was on a business trip out of the country. He left on Thursday the 28th, and on Friday the 29th I was handing my parents’ credit card to the lawyer while my son was at preschool and my parents, sister and her mother-in-law were clearing room in their house.

The next day sister’s mother-in-law brought her dad to help. I had everything out by 10 pm Sunday the 31st. My neighbor helped my son get his jack-o-lantern carved Saturday, my dad took us around the block trick-or-treating like always, then Sunday the little pumpkin went to a church festival with the neighbor’s 2 kids.

While he was gone my husband placed a “morale call” from the base he was staying on and found out I was leaving. He freaked out and his boss had him brought home Tuesday. I filed reports and swore out warrants Wednesday for domestic violence-harassment and harassing communications (53 text messages Tuesday afternoon)- there will be a protection order in place as a condition of release.

I filed for divorce Thursday. He hasn’t been served yet, but he will be.

And he will flip when he sees that petition.

My mom found me a good lawyer. My sister found a safe house for my mom and son to stay in until I get a custody order so my husband can’t take him. I haven’t missed a day of work this week, and my anxiety is starting to lift.

Of course I carry my (licensed) pistol with me everywhere. But that’s okay. That’s why he bought it for me: to defend myself.

The funny thing is, my son seems to totally understand why we left and he’s fine with it, I think he’s relieved too. He’s asked for me, his kitten, and his Batman toy. Not for his daddy. He’s playing with gramma, the horses, the dogs, and the wonderful Christian people who will keep them and hide them and keep them safe. He’s sleeping well, eating better than he ever has, and being a good boy. He asked me on Wednesday before we left if we could go live with gramma’s new kitty. Little did he know!

Thank you all Pranksters for your encouragement! I cried as I read your comments. I thought I had cried all the tears in the world already, but these were tears of joy that so many who have never met me would show me such love! You all are The Awesome! I know I still have a long row to hoe, but I have lots of stuff on tape, and some other stuff that should be sufficient to protect me and my son from my husband.

I love you all.

There’s a blaze of light in every word, indeed, Pranksters.

Love to each of you. Always,

Aunt Becky

SPOILER ALERT: I still have my drains. The upside? I’m feeling somuchbetter. Possibly because I’m ALSO weaning myself from The Max (Topamax)(GOD, I hate writing drug words, because then I am spammed to BALLS with “farmacies” selling me knock-off drugs, which is the opposite of awesome. Normally, I’m just spammed about Ugg Boots, which is working, because I’m now dying for a pair of them. Well played, Spammers) while I’m on hardcore narcotics.

And while you’ve been busy, living your life, THIS is what I’ve been thinking about:

*I’ve started writing a weekly Open Letter To Something on Mushroom Printing. This week, I wrote to my abdominal muscles. Last week, I wrote to vomit. Because OBVIOUSLY.

*When presented with this, the answer is always yes:

You all know how badly I want a Robot Monkey Butler named Mr. Pinchey, right? I used to want a REAL monkey butler, but I think PETA would be all up my ass if I got one, and besides, I don’t want my face ripped off. *makes Zoolander Face*

*Zoolander Face*

*I require this dress.

Okay, so not THIS one specifically, but one JUST LIKE IT.

So, Pranksters, if you should choose to accept this mission and find me this dress, I will hump you forever. Or, at least, uh, NOT hump you? WHATEVER YOU WANT.

*OR, I could give you this cookbook I found.

Aunt Becky + Rachael Ray = NOT BFF.

Why? I DON’T KNOW. I think she’s too happy for me.

I found THIS cookbook on my shelf and got WICKED confused. Like REALLY confused. We ALL know I don’t cook. And EVERYONE who knows me knows that Rachael Ray and I are NOT OKAY with each other. And somehow, THIS was on my shelf. THIS was NOT DIAMONDS. THIS WAS RACHAEL RAY.

I was stampy. HORRIFIED. This may be the source of all bad karma in my life. How long had it sat on my shelf? And WHERE had it come from? I simply didn’t know.

I STILL don’t know. At least the Williams-Sonoma books came from a recognizable source (my stupidity). I think I’m going to run some sort of contest to get rid of those cookbooks. Like, MAKE ME AWESOMESAUCE and get some ridiculous cookbooks.

*Earlier today, I tweeted this post on Band Back Together about Gender Non-Conformity.

(my manly butterfly says FUCK YOU to gender stereotypes, by the by)

Normally I tweet Band Back Together stuff from the Band Back Together Twitter Account. I recognize that the people on my Mommy Wants Vodka Twitter are normally expecting status updates like, “I JUST TOOK A POO, PLZ RT” so I try to keep the do-gooding to a minimum on there. But the gender non-conformity piece and occasional other pieces, well, when I see awesome ones (and don’t be offended if I do not, because I do not edit everything), I tweet them. I just can’t overwhelm people who expect status updates on my vagina.

(P.S. I hate having to think like that).

Well, this is what happened.

Let me show that to you a little closer.

That cause would PROBABLY be you. WHOOPS. And ROCK ON. I’m PROUD. Crash away, Pranksters. CRASH AWAY.

(no seriously, please crash the shit out of it. I’ll buy more space)

*Also: my rose is defiantly thumbing its nose at November.

Note my finger at the bottom. I expect a GRAMMY for this picture.

I should probably warn you that surgery is very, very glamorous. Like, I don’t even know how to tell you how glamorous it is to be me right now. You should all be jealous, Pranksters.

I mean, first, I get to use THESE (beloved by old people everywhere):

Oh yeah. FAKE BATH WIPES. I don’t get to take showers yet, so I get to use these bad boys. Get jealous, Pranksters. I smell like AWESOME.

Know why I can’t take showers?

My JP Drains. Even the name “drain” sounds like magic, don’t you agree?

(you do agree, I just know it.)

I’ll spare you the shots of MY drains, suffice to say that they look like aliens exploding from the binder on my chest, should I attempt to cover them up with a shirt. Although, really, why would I want to cover up such awesomeness?

Simple answer, I wouldn’t.

But I am hoping to have the doctor take them out today. I called yesterday about what I thought might be a popped stitch, and he thinks it’s just the nerves waking back up (HELLO HORRIFYING). I’m going in to see him, just to be on the safe side, which means (I hope) GOOD BYE DRAINS.

So tell me, Pranksters, how are YOU today?

Things that are bullshit:

My walls are butt-ugly. I know this because I’ve been staring at them for like 900 hours straight.

I need to call the doctor because I think I popped an internal stitch. I don’t KNOW this, but I think I did. Popping stitches is kinda bullshit.

Bedrest? More bullshit than you’d think. Especially when cockroach-y like myself. I’m sort of unable to move on my own, which sucks, because I AM alone today.

That song “All By Myself” is going through my head. That song is bullshit.

Spell check doesn’t recognize bedrest as a word, which makes me feel invalidated and insecure especially since Spell Check doesn’t think “Rebecca” is a word either, which it SO CLEARLY IS.

I have no Vicodin-Chip cookies because I am too sore to make them.

I found a number of cookbooks in my house when I was purging it. Cookbooks in my house are bullshit because I don’t cook. Especially WILLIAM SONOMA Cookbooks. Who the fuck did I think I was when I bought those? Martha Fucking Stewart?

Silent letters. What. The Fuck?

Things That Are NOT Bullshit:

Adding a silent “balls” to things when they’re awesome. Like silent letters, but better.

MY NEW SHIRTS ARE IN.

VEGAS, baby. December 10-12. I (still) Do is going on at the same time, so I’m joining forces with them so we can properly paint the town many shades of glitter. They’ve secured a block of hotel rooms at the MGM Grand and are having parties. I was just going to try and reenact Fear and Loathing and Las Vegas.

More bloggers means they can bail us out of jail we’re all, THIS HERE IS BAT COUNTRY, Pranksters.

Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. They’re SO not bullshit.