Beer and a Shot: Death of a Sponge Cake

Man, fuck Twinkies.

Fuck’em right in their creamy vanilla centers. I ate a Twinkie once, at least I think I did, but it was such an unmemorable flavor experience that the only thing I actually remember was the fact that I was finally eating a Twinkie. Why was I eating this Twinkie? The exercise must have been a purely academic one or was I just too high to care? Because Twinkie’s are on some fuck shit. And, that’s that shit I don’t like.

Why all the faux nostalgia for this stetson sporting, lasso toting sponge cake anyway? I mean, I know that Americans like to hold on to their childhoods tighter than old white ladies do their pocket books when the ambiguously ethnic young folk are roving the streets in packs of juvenile delinquency, but really, who gives a fuck about a Twinkie? They’re prepackaged remnants of a bygone era, mocked for their indestructibility (a myth), and devoid of any redeeming qualities.

Find me one person who really, I mean really, is on some ride-or-die shit when it comes to Twinkie’s and I will be more than happy to sit down with this morbidly obese lady or gentlemen… and after we clear up just exactly when it was when they had 3 of the 5 toes on their left foot removed because of the ‘betes, listen to them wax poetic about the virtues of vanilla cream filled sponge cake made in a plant somewhere in middle America. I’m all ears. But, until that time, I’m raising middle fingers up and screaming “Fuck Twinkie’s!”

By this point, you’ve either quit reading or you’re wondering to yourself, “Damn, why all the Twinkie hate?” It’s not really the Twinkie’s fault. They were just made to be mediocre, but that’s really what’s at stake here: The Status Quo. The proud American tradition of manufacturing mediocrity, selling it for a profit and then lamenting it’s loss as we fondly remember the good ol days when there was a Twinkie in every bagged lunch and just how delicious those moist little morsels were when they were pried, ever so lovingly, from their air-sealed, plastic packages. I call bullshit! That day never existed. It is a manufactured memory that has been implanted in your brain by advertisers so that you think that you actually like something.

Fuck Hostess. Fuck’em for not evolving. Fuck’em for trotting out the same tired ass snacks for 60 years. Evolution in the market place is a must, and if you can’t swim, then you bound to drizzown. People who check for Twinkie’s probably also believe that God co-signs legitimate rape babies and that Dinosaurs and Unicorns were getting high in the boy’s bathroom doing gay stuff and that’s why they didn’t end up on Noah’s Arc. Or, maybe, they are just like so many Americans who are too fucking lazy to demand a better option. You don’t have to eat that shit stick just because its there, in Aisle 2, on sale, for $.99. For fuck sake, if you have to deep fry something in order to save it from disappearing, you’re probably not dealing with a superior quality good.

Fitzgerald famously wrote, “There are no second acts in American lives.”

In the case of The Twinkie, he was incorrect. The Twinkie was seemingly resurrected in a vat of bubbling hot oil. Deep Fried Twinkie’s are not without their folksy charm and I will admit, are a million times better than their “uncrispened” counter parts. However, frying a Twinkie is like putting rims and a Bentley grill on a 300M: It might look a little better, but that muthafucka is still a Chrysler. Americans have to quit polishing turds and trying to pass them off as pastilles.


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