Update, February 3, 2020: He’s a Baby Nut now. You know, like a Baby Yoda. Okay. Sure. That’s fine.

　　Original post, January 22, 2020: Mr. Peanut, American icon, has passed on. He is a peanut no more! He has ceased to be! He has expired and gone to meet his maker. He’s a stiff! He rests in peace. His metabolic processes are now history; he’s kicked the bucket, he’s shuffled off this mortal coil, he sleeps with the fishes, he’s run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible. EVERYONE START FREAKING OUT.

　　Planters announced the death of the 104-year old icon at 10 a.m. on Wednesday morning with a cryptic message on Twitter, giving zero explanation as to who these “friends” were or what sort of nefarious business they got Mr. Peanut all mixed up in. After convincing myself this was most likely meth-related and rounding up an elite team of vigilante renegades with a thirst for justice, a shocking video was released, showing Mr. Peanut plummeting off a cliff to a fiery demise.

　　The general public seems to believe that this isn’t actually the end for the elderly anthropomorphic peanut, as we are but ten days away from the holiest of advertising days: the Super Bowl. The question then is: when we wake up on Super Bowl Sunday to find his tomb opened and the casket empty, will mankind be ready to accept the resurrected Mr. Peanut as their one true lord and savior?