It was the kind of story a journalist hopes to never have to write. The haunting imagery, the burden of research, the emotional toll — it was almost too much to bear. But it had to be written.

Two years ago this week, I wrote a Mouthing Off about Snuggies. The wearable bedspread has haunted me ever since.

When I first heard of the item, it seemed like nothing more than something you feared your aunt would mistakenly gift you. Slowly, it grew into a fad that, I thought, would last no more than a few months. By some cruel twist of fate, however, these blanketed behemoths sold in record numbers and continue to exist.

Apparently the world failed to heed my message. The tragically dorky commercials were a hit. The family featured in them, despite appearing to be on some type of psychotropic drug, became America’s family.

Seeing an opportunity to capitalize, dozens of Snuggie knockoffs flooded the market —the Slanket and the Toasty Wrap, to name a few. They attained celebrity status when the cast of “Today” wore them and Weezer came out with its own version. Enough Cleveland Cavaliers fans wore them to earn a spot in the Guinness World Records.

As someone who barely follows popular culture, I was able to sidestep much of this. However, friends, family and coworkers who do pay attention to such meaninglessness notified me of every new development in the world of Snuggies. My phone was bombarded with images of “Snuggie for Dogs” with captions that read, “You should write about this!”

I tried to laugh it off, but to no avail. Humorists such as myself served only to increase the grotesque garment’s popularity.

It turned out people were all too glad to give up their dignity and self-respect simply to spite us. They wore them on pub crawls. Someone with way too much free time made a music video titled “Teach Me How To Snuggie,” a parody of Cali Swag District’s hit song. A book called “The Snuggie Sutra” — well, I’ll let you research that depravity on your own.

Even The Oakland Post office, it pains me to report, is home to two Snuggies. But the final straw came when the fond memories of my childhood were forever tarnished when the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sold out. Yes, the heroes in half-shells became the weirdos in sleeved-blankets.

By this point, I had ample proof of mental anguish, so I sought legal action. Within days of filing my court brief, however, I received a threatening letter — not from Snuggie, but the judge who was to hear the case. I figured he’d have recognized Snuggies as imposters, intruding on judges’ fashion monopoly, but even he was a Snuggie sympathizer. If judges were indoctrinated, there was no hope.

I no longer knew where to turn or who to trust. I couldn’t fall asleep at night, for fear I’d wake up trapped inside my blanket.

On a deadly mixture of overexposure to “We Wish You a Snuggie Christmas” and a lack of sleep, I set out to put an end to these arm-abiding afghans once and for all.

I knew I could not slay the Snuggie on my own. The beast was too powerful; I would need assistance. With the rest of the world on the Snuggie bandwagon, it would have to be someone who suffered greatly from its advent. The answer was obvious: The traditional blanket. Abandoned, neglected, cast aside, normal blankets felt like a first-born child after a newborn comes along.

After overcoming my bedtime fears, we formed an alliance and set out to destroy that which had irrevocably wronged us.

While it would’ve given us infinite joy to ruin the wearable blankets thread by thread, we’d need something more direct, so we settled for the next best thing: Shrinking them.

The blankets and I amassed every Snuggie we could locate and dumped them into the biggest Kenmore the world had ever seen. The Snuggies shrieked as they shrank.

Things were going perfectly until I heard the screams of my brotherly blankets in arms. They were being dragged into the dryer, falling prey to the same treatment as our enemy.

The situation was dire. When all hope seemed lost, the blankets offered to make the ultimate sacrifice: Their selves. They would forfeit their own fabric to fill the armholes of Snuggies, rendering them just blankets.

The plan went off without a hitch. While the Snuggie population dwindled to zero, blankets experienced exponential growth — it was truly a win-win situation.

While the world may never be free of awful ads and unfortunate fashion fads, we can rest easy knowing that one less monstrosity exists.