Plums are Tricks, Prunes are Treats

The Discovery Health channel has had Plum Smart (and Plum Smart Light!) commercials on heavy rotation of late.  Just can't wait the 14 days for yogurt to work for ya? Then let Plum Smart come to the rescue! It is mighty fast reacting, often in minutes! (Get a two-for-one deal - a package of Depends with every six-pack of Plum Smart!)
I love how the Prune industry is trying to go after a 'younger', more 'hip' demographic by referring to their product as a 'Dried Plum.' Hence Plum Smart. Come on! It's fucking Prune Juice!! Now to be fair, 'Plum' is probably a more accurate name for the swill (prunes by definition have no juice or they'd be plums). But I'm a traditionalist here and this is clearly a shameless marketing ploy, a grab for the youth vote.

To add some color to my umbrage over the prune/plum dodge, as well as my love/hate relationship with Raisin's big brother, let me tell a brief story of one of my lasting memories of childhood, an event that scarred me in an indelible way. It took place during one of my first Halloween trick-or-treat runs so I was very young, just a pup.
Late on my rounds, I came upon one particularly evil looking home (though not due to any decoration - just year-round general-purpose creepiness). I was hesitant to visit, but the porch light was on and my chaperon (either my mother or sister, I forget) nudged me forward. So I knocked.

The door slowly groaned open to reveal a dark interior from which an irritated elderly crone clutching a huge wooden cane emerged. Real old. Wicked Witch of the West times twelve old (though she wasn't decked out in any trappings of witchcraft I was familiar with). Hunched over yet still towering above my tiny fraidy cat form, I recall clearly the feeling of dread shooting up my spine. "Trick-or-treat?" I hopefully half muttered my part of the bargain. She frowned, hard pursed lips. I was clearly not her first visitor. And it was apparent she had tired of this insufferable, rhetorical cry of spoiled children. "I don't have candy! I drink prune juice!" She waved her cane as I braced for the expected blow, frozen in my tracks. Then she slammed shut the door and it was over.

My first rejection. Bitch. Turn out your fucking porch light then. That's the signal! You're no babe in the woods. You know the deal!!
I hated prune juice from that point on, though I wasn't sure what it was exactly. I'm still not certain.
Fast forward 25 years and prunes had become my savior, my liquid plumber. The only thing standing between relief and misery. But this new alliance didn't extend to prune juice, that oxymoron of a beverage. And it never will, no matter what flights of linguistic fancy Madison Avenue types use to try and pull the wool over my eyes.
That autumn encounter of yore left an indelible mark that can't be washed away by some plum/prune shell game.