This evening we were killing time in the Castro and dropped into a small candy store we like. There, leering up at me through the glass of the case like a second rate rentboy, was a tray of CHOCOLATE COVERED TWINKIES. I was already stunned by the lurid display and then the owner (who wears her hair in incredibly inappropriate pigtails) announced that she had never had a Twinkie until they started making these because she had grown up in Canada. Is that possible? Aren’t some forms of junk food just universal? I felt I had to buy one, like buying a ticket to a horror movie you know is going to repulse you, just to uphold the American Way of Crap.
In this funny old world where nothing is quite as it seems, it’s such a pleasure to run across something that turns out to be every bit as disgusting as you thought it might be. Like a cross between a white-trash eclair and some exotic fecal matter, Chocolate Covered Twinkies managed to overwhelm even me, and I can choke down almost anything sweet. I present photographic proof with one bite taken out of it, moments before the whole thing was sent to a watery grave down the sewer. I had to hold my breath, fearing it might take out our brand new garbage disposal, but no, all praise Saint Dolly Madison.