Me LOOOOOOOOOOVE cookies! Me savagely smash all over blue-furred face. But even me getting sick of Accept All Cookies.

Listen, me recognize cookies can benefit personal web experience, in unknowable ways that feel largely unhelpful, but lately me accept so many cookies me gonna yak 15” Dell laptop. Me probably have cookie diarrhea if it weren't for having no butthole.

Me visit and can’t browse Kia Sportage in Cookie Monster area unless accept all cookies; uh, why me must concede privacy and personal data just to scope out best in class sub-compact SUV? When did something that taste so good leave such bad taste in mouth? Dear God, why must cookie crumble this way?

Me might be grammatically incorrect googly-eyed asexual puppet, but me unwilling to be subservient marketing puppet. Me get grumpy as Oscar the Grouch in soiled trashcan after junk mail from Orange County Kia. Not to mention shitload of banner ads, Twitter posts, texts, and phone calls from pissant sales associate Derrek. Come on, Derrek, me don’t even have driver license.

That’s when Cookie Monster start to wonder, who real monster…

Cookie Monster say, maybe insatiable ad freaks real monster. Cookie Monster say, they thirsty as Miss Piggy on Tinder, bloodsucking as The Count. Cookie Monster say, what kind of monster expect people to read cookie policy lengthy as Magna Carta? Sorry, sometime Cookie Monster start speaking in third person when emphatically trying to drive home point.

Basically, me feel like tossing cookies. Suckling tech goblins claim cookies helpful, but only thing cyber hellhounds care about is fracking souls to make more cookie dough—and not the yummy kind. The icky kind that snare me in perpetual cycle of unmanageable spending habits and really bad tummy ache.

Folks, me been mowing down cookies since '80s—back when cookie preferences were just chocolate chip. But me never have supernatural pest follow me around shopping mall. Mrs. Fields never track me like twisted bounty hunter past Hot Topic and Orange Julius, tailing every move with creepy tenacity of marketing stormtrooper.

Me admit, at first it was d-lish. Accepting cookies led to being sold more of what me love most; good-ass cookies. But then me get Type II Diabetes and pack on 40 pounds. Me lose confidence and cooking show and oversized chef hat and dream of Kia Sportage. How you like if love of life suddenly become career-ending affliction? Rhetorical question, dumb dumb.

Me profoundly miss that oversized chef hat. Such vital part of identity. Something hackers stole when cookies expose me to Trojan horse virus that trample harddrive and public reputation, and trigger online blackmail ordeal that send Elmo home in bodybag. True story.

Anyways. Like bad oyster, no more cookies for me. But don’t worry about ole Cookie Monster. Me pivot and start offshoot Blue Man Group with kinky vibe. Check me out at And don’t worry about accepting cookies—totally harmless!