Buried under the last surviving Oompa Loompa’s green wig, set designers uncovered an authentic journal penned by Mr. Wonka himself. Let’s take a look at a few of the entries.
Dear Diary, doctor’s appointment today — Type 2 Diabetes. What to do, what to do? Gotta sell my life’s work. But will someone fork over billions of dollars to buy it?? (Or even just a
But hopefully nobody makes me a lowball offer or thinks it’ll be like taking candy from a baby. The suspense is terrible . . . I hope it’ll last.
My marketing/public relations person doesn’t like sugarcoating the truth and says the real estate market is glutted with chocolate factory listings. Oh no! She suggests a contest for someone to inherit it instead. Very creative! .
Had to sleep on the couch last night because wife won’t let me enter our bed unless I find a golden ticket hidden around the house. Genius. I know! That’s the system I’ll use to select who gets to tour my chocolate factory. Hmmm, where to put the tickets? My wife slips them in my Viagra bottles, but I think Scrumdiddlyumptious chocolate bars might be more effective.
There’s a problem. Apparently my PR person isn’t happy with the weird orange little men I have working in my factory and she particularly finds the name of their tribe, “The Oopsies Poopsies” very offensive. Suggests changing the name to “Oompa Loompas” and passing off their toilet as a chocolate river. Problem solved!
Ugh. Do I really look like Gene Wilder? Strike that. Reverse it.
Note to Self: Go on Shark Tank television show with my Lickable wallpaper before Slugworth does.
All five golden tickets seem to have been found by bratty kids. What’s up with that? Don’t buxom blondes eat chocolate anymore? I coulda started something with that older chick named Ruth (Mike Teevee’s mom) but I heard his “Snickers” when I held her hand and I was all “Butterfingers.” That “Smartie” little “Twix!” I’ve got a “Good N’ Plenty” mind to show him a thing or two from preventing my “Skor” with “Ruth, Baby.” Will think up my revenge later, Diary. . . it may be a bit of a stretch and it’s definitely gonna be a
toughie . . . taffy!
Old man Grandpa Joe can barely get around. I think I’ll make fun of him during my grand entrance by walking with a cane and falling down into a somersault. Yes, that sounds like a good plan.
Today I tinkered around with the machine that manufactures three-course meal chewing gum. Won’t Violet’s father be surprised when he has a Snozberry for a daughter instead of a blueberry. Hee!
Darn! The great glass elevator is malfunctioning again. The dramatic climax won’t be quite the same if we have to climb the stairs up the fire escape.
Veruca Salt wants one of my geese! And she wants it NOW! I’ll have to send them on a wild goose chase instead. In fact, I have a strong feeling none of these kids are the right fit to run my factory. What was I thinking? I’ve changed my mind and now I’m gonna have to scare them away by becoming eccentric. Plus there’s always a traumatic boat ride which could start off as a pitch black tunnel and turn into a psychedelic acid trip with visions of leaches crawling over people’s eyes and chickens getting murdered, or something. Still working on that part. But if all else fails, I’m going to install a lethal fan in the ceiling of the Fizzy Lifting Drink tower. That oughta deter EVERYONE. Mwahaha!
Yes!! I knew it all along. I’m actually a dead ringer for Johnny Depp!
Dear Diary, I don’t need a PR/Marketing person. . . I need a lawyer! Life is like a box of chocolates — you never know what you’ll be getting. But I’m getting sued for child endangerment!
Forget this goody-two-shoes Charlie Bucket chump and my providing housing for his entire unfortunate family– I’m leaving my chocolate factory to a Vermicious Knid. And I’ll get Roald Dahl to write the sequel! But first I’ll suggest he use the pseudonym “Ronald Dahl” so us Americans don’t keep butchering his name. Yeah….that’s the (golden!) ticket!