Friday, 16 November 2012

Lament, O Ye, That Such A Day As This Ever Could Come

Hostess, producers they of the almighty Twinkie, have run out of money and packed up shop forever.

Ne'er to be gazed upon again
I discovered Twinkies last year living in England, for sale in the local sweet shop in Crewe which shut soon after, causing me to resort to traveling occasionally to Manchester's awesome Afflecks bazaar to sate my need for that yellow sugar'd treat. I'd been obsessed with them since first seeing them stuffed whole into the mouths of a pair of characters in Buffy The Vampire Slayer about thirteen years ago and fantasized for years about what they must taste like. My first was in a train station that smelled (and smells still, I imagine) like one of my aunts' houses used to, and I was unable to describe it and sat, at once ecstatic and yet remorseful for the millions of me's that lived 'til that point and never knew such joy.

Since leaving England in June I've not since had a Twinkie, and I'm now worried that I may never again. I hear there's a shop in the next town over that sells them, and I'm hoping the student collective hasn't their finger as on the pulse of American confectionary news as I, and that I'm able to stockpile a few before the inevitable. I've not been as saddened by the loss of a foodstuff as when I recently realised (with a violent spasm of woe) that Mars Delight is no longer sold round these parts. A poem then, to commemorate this dreadful fucking day, with respect and condolence to mouths everywhere.

Rest ye, Twinkie, in hunger's heaven: yours is that perch atop;
It is not yours to look down; to see you, we need only look up.

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