As human beings, we are creatures of hope. To find traces of it, we often look to nature, to the stars, and to the future. I can’t speak for ancient man, but in modern times that last one often seems bleak—and other times, it makes you just straight up vomit in your mouth. This is one of those times.
Surfing the grungy edge of the total collapse of the unfortunately American icon Hostess, it isn’t bad enough that thousands are going jobless while the executives that invariably caused the situation are committing a song and dance in front of judges, posturing for millions of dollars in bonuses. Nope. Adding insult to grievous injury, the American people and their proud culture are being robbed of possibly their only chance to be rid of the damnable Twinkie. The corporate vultures are circling their wagons around the brand (and their other disgusting offerings) with wads of cash and cruel intention. There’s a lot of talk about not only preserving these “cakes,” but perhaps even keeping the supply uninterrupted so as to prevent value degradation. Just the thought of that wrestles my wincing eye into squeezing out a singular, glass-like tear. Watch and be amazed, as it drops in slow motion down, down, into that mad, dark place where the celebrity gossips and the misogyny and the Nickelbacks go.
Ask yourself this: do we really need an armada of plasticine sponges inching their way down our collective esophagi, plotting to deposit their non-Newtonian 2.5 grams of saturated fat? The correct answer here is a resounding “Hell, no.” And we certainly don’t need to see them lining grocery store shelves (you know, where “food” is sold). But there they are, and apparently will continue to be—nestled in boxes with a grotesque animated version of the product grinning wickedly at our youngsters (and overgrown man-children) from behind a Stetson and overalls. Its cold eyes stare right through you as it lifts some tall grass to its gaping maw. Internationally, we may be already fossilized as caricatures of ourselves, but domestically we can still attempt, as a people, to exercise a little self-respect. Where’s that good, old fashioned American opportunism when you need it to mount the great horse of Irony and rescue us from this monster?
In yet a further gut-wrenching twist of the David Lynchian dagger, it appears as if the firm that owns Pabst Blue Ribbon, C. Dean Metropoulos and Co., is on a locomotive path towards the acquisition of the Twinkie. Just take a moment and let that soak in.
I think that the sense made from the possible (and obnoxious) combination of toilet water masquerading as beer and the snack equivalent of the Enigma machine is the most disturbing part about it. Thanks a lot for helping them get the purchasing power, hipsters. Seriously, good show. You don’t think so? Try this quote from Darren Metropoulos on for size: “We have analyzed this opportunity very carefully for a few years now. Shedding the complications of the unions and old plants makes it even more attractive.” You did that.
Honestly, I feel like the entire situation should be ringing up a nice room service bill at the Crimes Against Humanity Hotel. It reeks of waste, greed, and heart disease.
by Johnny Beaver