When I was a wee lad, my parents refused to buy me hostess cupcakes, twinkies, and other delicious junk food products. “They turn you into a hyperactive- punch Scotty in the gut monster!” my mother said. My principal agreed. The magical white swirly tops of the chocolate cakes and any other mystical incarnation of sugar did not mix well with me.
But I was determined to fill my innards with spooky preservatives, my tongue with tasty candy, and my fists with superpowers; so, I got a paper route, which meant early mornings of throwing heavy stuff at strangers’ homes. It wasn’t a bad gig at all.
The very first payday, I strode past the winos into the Quick Mart armed with a massive amount of cash for a kid of the verge of teenager-dom, $10. I bought exactly two wine bottle sized brown paper bags of my own private Halloween. My sack brimmed with Twinkies, Chocodiles, Now & Laters, Hostess Cupcakes, and one chilly Chocotaco, which I ate immediately. Hopped up on sweets, I spotted my friend Scotty on the corner. After Scotty caught his breath from a wicked surprise punch to the belly, I gave him a twinkie and we feasted together upon the scrumptious hostess bonanza.
Without Hostess, I will not longer have an excuse for punching people in the gut.
So sad 🙁
Hostess Cupcakes Requiescat in Pacem. May the Heavenly Holy Trinity chomp upon the delicious brain rotting delights of your creamy centers and smash their fists into each other’s tummies for eternity.