The Brenner File

There is no fucking chocolate in those pipes! So what is he building in there? We have a right to know.

Cause I need caffeine late at night. Albeit from a shop that pays a dedicated marketing team of escaped mental patients to sell hot chocolate to Chinese people.

Those big strapping pipes that connect the chocolate mixer barrels with their smaller counterparts behind the coffee machine at every Max Brenner chocolate bar? There is no fucking chocolate in them.

And the mixers themselves? The giant drums that look like one could comfortably fit a human in? They are only a few inches deep! Holding barely a litre of delicious gunk. But don’t be too sad, you pig, a visit at Max Brenner will still make you fatter alright.

The staff is skinny, Asian and plentiful; yet they are incapable of serving people. Even at eleven at night you’ll have to line up behind 3 dozens more obvious, thigh-chafing dessert enthusiasts. They thought of chocolate first and are now talking in whisper code to their enablers behind the counter, who will stay up all night making cream whips and are loading up on nougat just to stay crazy. Meanwhile, you consider dipping your whole arm into one of those chocolate drums; take a big bite out of it while you’re waiting. It’s a strange place.

And it’s cold. I checked in during a hot day, just to see what the hell is going on and was convinced, on entry, that my nuts just fell off – like its air conditioned for a different species.

Looking for coffee, I soon found this quote emblazoned on the wall exclaiming,

’Watch, smell, feel and taste my love story’!

– Max

Watch!? Watch your love story, bald fat man?! Isn’t the guy Swiss? How foreign are you really?! It’s ‘see’!!!… Isn’t it? Watch my big, fat, bald love story is so gross if not grammatically retarded, that no human could write it in big, fat, bald letters on his wall to welcome customers.

The other side of the chocolate bar has been decorated, not with a quote from the founder, but a made up one – most conclusively from a made up, small child.

“Look mum, Willy Wonka is alive!”
– Did he die in the end!? You can’t help but wonder what a hunched sense of light-heartedness conjured up such a piece of point-of-sale communications. Or maybe our barefaced alien founder is so demented from all the sugar in his mousse, he really thought Michael Jackson was Willy Wonka.

The ice cream menu – now this is in fact called the Max Brenner I-Scream menu – turns out to be most revealing.

Next to something that looks like a Mocha Frappuccino it says ‘Chill..’ in big yellow letters. Ok, and just underneath, we find an illustration of two kids, a boy and a girl, maybe siblings, maybe not, who are both licking the same ice cream cone – at the same time!

Are you fucking kidding me?! I think I can watch their tongues touching! Someone has to look into this bald Max Brenner guy, find out where he lives and at least get him in for questioning. He can’t be from an English speaking country, because of the unoriginal bastardisation of language we find in the I-Scream Menu – things like the Max-Wich. This could only make sense if you’re living out of a cave on Saturn… where you’ve heard of this sandwich thing and that it can be ice cream – now your name is Max and…

It’s getting late here. The TV station is about to close for the night. I just relieved my bourbon for the third time of a tiny, eight hundred-eyed, flying monstrosity who’s dead set on offing itself tonight. I’m a little dazed too. Probably best to leave the Brenner File for another day. The drugs are really bringing out the news reader’s resemblance to a big grey snake doing its laundry and some chick is sending me naked pictures of her in a cat costume.

 

MD’A