Let’s call it what it is. This is an assault on chocolate with the goal being its elimination. Nothing more, nothing less. It may sound far-fetched, but I formulated this theory by scrutinizing the rationale behind replacing Valentine’s Day with Friendship Day. Turns out, it doesn’t have anything to do with promoting “friendship.” Or preventing the terminally lonely from having their feelings hurt after being ghosted by Cupid for the umpteenth year in a row. Looking at all the facts, I turned over the final stone and unearthed the culprits behind this scheme.

With or without chocolate, I’ve always been a big fan of Valentine’s Day. When the only measure for a successful celebration is impressing just one other person, what could go wrong? Aiming at a target consisting of a solitary bullseye taking up your whole field of vision increases accuracy by like 100-fold. With minimal effort, who can’t be an Olympic marksman on Valentine’s Day?

And we would be stupid not to pick some random date in the middle of February to express our undying love to whoever is our plus-one at the time. What better way to break up the weeks between New Year’s and Arbor Day?

I also fervently subscribe to Valentine’s Day’s credo: Forced, sentimental materialism is key to a solid relationship. I willingly torpedoed my budget by maxing out my credit card on time-sensitive, overpriced meals along with flowers and spa days and jewelry that will be eaten or tossed or forgotten or pawned (when the relationship comes to its inevitable rocky conclusion). That’s fine.

These tasks were completed in anticipation my “loved one” would monetarily reciprocate in kind. Or God willing, equated The Cheesecake Factory, roses, a mani/pedi and earrings with foreplay, signaling spontaneous coitus. The accumulated receipts were offset by the chance I’d be culminating three and a half minutes of euphoric bliss before Sportscenter started. Six if I thought about the possibility the charges wouldn’t be posted on this month’s Visa’s statement. How is this bad?

The build-up to 2/14 isn’t protracted. That’s a bonus when you’re single. The implication that only couples can enjoy this special occasion isn’t shoved in your face for weeks prior like Christmas or my birthday. And the pain of not being an active participant in a Valentine’s Day lovefest subsides within 23 hours. Chocolates discounted up to 80%, even if in the shape of a heart, are the sutures that close my soul’s deep wounds. At reduced prices, when’s a better time to be Pro-Valentine’s?

It was the bargain-priced chocolate that brought everything into focus. That was the linchpin enabling me to wrap my head around who would benefit from introducing Friendship Day. Since GET RID OF CHOCOLATE couldn’t possibly be the #1 priority on Congress’ “To Do” list, the government was eliminated. There had to be another nefarious force spearheading the quest to abolish Valentine’s Day.

Proponents of Friendship Day would have to reap something from Valentine’s demise. Like all good sleuths, I followed the money which led me directly to Haribo and the Jelly Belly Jelly Company. It’s always the ones you least expect.

Here’s the rationale. Chocolate dominates Valentine’s Day sales. Gummy Bears and Jelly Belly jellybeans are tied for distant second. Destroying Valentine’s Day forces the sugar-craving public to seek other options for placating the milk chocolate monkey on its collective back. GB and JB will Pied Piper the downtrodden right to Friendship Day with its corresponding treats laden with elevated fructose levels. This guerrilla marketing results in a bigger piece of the moolah pie.

Although I’m impressed with the tactics employed, obviously inspired by Sun-Tzu’s The Art of War, I can’t idly sit by while a sinister plan to eradicate the beloved cacao bean is executed. My conscious (and sweet tooth) will not allow such a travesty. I am willing to risk my life or limb by unveiling the perpetrators.

It’s always about the Benjamins. And paper portraits of dead presidents are amassed by either crushing your competition or through a hostile takeover. Both are bad PR. It puts corporate greed in the spotlight and your company in the headlines. However, if a business does not appear to be involved with the competition fading from view, it doesn’t get its hands dirty. Wearing a clean cape of righteousness, it can come to the rescue by filling the void left behind. The company assumes the persona of a confectionary savior to those hurting. A genius Machiavellian strategy.

Corporations don’t want their consumer base to sour if profits skyrocket due to unscrupulous dealings. It needs to be more covert. Sure, the major grocery stores’ CEOs getting nondescript packages containing bits of multi-colored, crushed M&M shell sends a clear message. Such intimidation can even extend to getting Little Debbie and the Keebler Elves pulled from stores. But it’s bad optics.

Loyalists to Quicky, the Nesquik rabbit, will notice when he goes missing. Unvetted blogs pop up, raising awareness of his absence. A GoFundMe page starts. Rumors will swirl that some men in black suits forcibly hippity hopped Q’s furry butt to a cosmetic testing facility operated by Revlon or L’Oreal. That reflects poorly.

Nobody wants to know how many licks from a metal baton it takes to reach the middle of Mr. Owl’s skull. If he had abandoned his Tootsie Pop research when asked, he wouldn’t be tied up in the basement of some Hoboken stash house. He should have accepted the Avian Protection program offer. Now he’s getting fitted for concrete shoes. Could of, would of, should of doesn’t help.

And what about the disappearance of the two lobbyists from Big Chocolate last month? The media glossed over this. The only detail mentioned was they never rendezvoused for a scheduled meeting with their lawyer and the delegation from Lindt. Within two days, the story was buried, found only when scrolling through many pages. Chilling to think those two hard-working men were recipients of what I refer to as the KST (Karen Silkwood Treatment). Highly concerning.

But these tactics are very heavy-handed. Executing them will ensure the FBI will start snooping around. Much better for a business to come across as benevolent and bask in the afterglow of chocolate’s implosion.

And that’s how Friendship Day came about. I now fear Easter is on the chopping block. Someone should alert the Cadbury Bunny.

Mrs. Patel’s knees nearly touched her chest as she sat on the miniature blue plastic chair. At the edge of the circle, Logan rocked back and forth on his heels, his hand stretching so high it threatened to detach from his arm. His eyes darted between Mrs. Patel and the construction paper hearts scattered across the tables, mouth twitching with barely contained information.

“Okay, Logan.” She smoothed her skirt, voice soft as a library whisper. “You wanted to tell us about Valentine’s Day?”

Logan’s entire body became a nod, his mop of brown hair flopping in his face. “Uh-huh. It’s all gone.”

Tommy’s mouth dropped open. Maria crushed her paper heart. Zoe stared.

Mrs. Patel’s hand froze mid-reach toward the glue stick bucket. “Gone?“

“Yeah.” Logan bounced on his toes. “Daddy says we can’t do it no more ’cause it makes people sad.”

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Mrs. Patel’s mind raced to process this proclamation, delivered with all the gravity of a breaking news report before snack time.

She leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath. “Makes people sad?”

Logan’s face scrunched up, his lower lip jutting out. His fingers twisted the hem of his dinosaur t-shirt. “Like... like when Tommy has a cookie? And I don’t got one? And my tummy feels all yucky looking at his cookie?”

Mrs. Patel’s chin dipped slowly. “Like snack time?”

“Yeah!” Logan’s arms waved everywhere. “But it’s hearts and stuff!” His fingers spread wide, then squeezed tight. “Some kids get lots and lots of hearts, and some kids don’t get any, and they cry and get mad and stuff. So now we got Friendship Day instead!”

The only sound was the gentle whir of the classroom hamster wheel.

Ethan’s eyebrows squished together, his crayon stopping. “But... but my mommy and daddy still do Valentine’s.”

Logan shrugged his shoulders. “That’s okay. Like... like...” His face pinched. “Like how some people got fish and some people got dogs. And both is okay.”

Mrs. Patel’s teeth caught her lower lip, her head tilting to one side.

She cleared her throat, voice climbing an octave. “So what do you do on Friendship Day?”

Logan jumped up and down. “It’s super cool! You pick your bestest friend and give them a hug! No yucky kissing—” he stuck out his tongue, and giggles erupted around the circle “—or fancy stuff that makes grownups all grumpy. Just friends!”

Mrs. Patel’s fingers drummed against her knee. “That sounds... kind of nice, actually.”

“Yeah!” Logan grinned, showing his missing front tooth. “Daddy says nobody’s sad on Friendship Day ’cause everybody’s got a friend!”

The classroom grew still, like the moment before snow falls. Twenty small faces turned inward, trying to understand.

“Move! That’s MY spot!” Jason lunged forward, both hands shoving Mia.

She toppled sideways onto the carpet.

“Jason!” Mrs. Patel’s voice snapped through the air.

Mia’s chin trembled. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, darkening spots on her pink unicorn sweater.

Mrs. Patel’s eyes found the rainbow-shaped clock. 9:07 AM. One hand reached for the tissue box, the other for the behavior chart. So much for Friendship Day.