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Thurston Thornton Tells It Like It Is!
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An Unthinkable World without Twinkies

March 17, 2012

You hear all this talk about vitamins. You've got A, B, C and D. But here's some information you may be unfamiliar with. There is another vitamin called T, and that stands for Twinkies. And let me tell you, vitamin T is the most important one out there. When I've got my vitamin T, I can pretty much do without all those other vitamins altogether.

With all of that being said, I'll still admit that I have a strong fondness for vitamin C. I get my daily dose from Cutty Sark, which, as you can see, begins with the letter C. Maybe that's not the kind of vitamin C those nutritionalistical eggheads have in mind, but it works well enough for me.

Some folks wonder what Twinkies are really made of. My response? Pure creme-filled goodness. And notice that I didn't say cream-filled, I said creme-filled, that's crEME as opposed to crEAM. What's the difference, you may ask?

I'll tell you what the difference is. Cream is just some fluffy white stuff extracted from milk. Not bad, I'll admit, especially when it's sprayed out of a can on top of a hot fudge sundae, but it can't hold a candle to creme, which is on an entirely different level altogether. Suffice it to say, creme is nothing short of the ambrosia of the gods.

How is creme made, you might ask? Now, normally I am opposed to all things scientific, except when they relate to military technology and the like, but when it comes to creme, I make an important exception. Many years ago, America's best and brightest scientific minds got together in some laboratory somewhere, and decreed that creme would be produced using entirely inorganic compounds. No cows or actual milk need be involved. That, my friends, was an example of pure genius. In a single stroke, the food industry was forever transformed for the better. It was a bright, shining moment in our history as a nation.

So, what specific ingredients actually go into creme? Well, my friends, I don't have all the minute details, and in any case, I think that it's best to leave all of that up to the scientists who make creme for us every day. They are professionals, they know what they are doing, and we can trust them. Creme is made of perfectly safe chemicals, which are manufactured in laboratories, and it's all whipped up into a delicious white froth, to which is added good old high fructose corn syrup, that all-American sweetener. What chemicals, you wonder. Very, very good chemicals, that's what I say. How do I know? My friends, the proof is in the pudding. Take a bite of a succulent, mouth-watering Twinkie and just try to tell me that it isn't absolute heaven. Yep, those are some amazing chemicals indeed, end of discussion.

Twinkies are an exceptional food in other ways as well. For example, their ability to remain fresh indefinitely is well known, and for very good reason. I myself can personally attest to this.

Back around 1965, when I was a youth, I decided to create an emergency stash of Twinkies. In my closet, I pulled up the floorboards a bit, exposing a small space underneath where I was able to place ten of the creme-filled snacks. I then hammered everything back into place so that no one might suspect the invaluable treasure hidden below. At the time, I feared that the commies might invade at any moment, and I wanted to be sure that I would have a small supply of necessary nutrition were that to take place.

Well, over the passing decades, I totally forgot about that stash, until one day a few months ago, when I was going through my closet looking for a packet of bee-bee pellets, I noticed the hammer marks on the floor, and suddenly remembered. Curious to check upon the state of my long-stored rations, I pulled up the floorboards once again, and lo and behold, the desserts were in no less than perfect condition. Not a spot of mold, mildew, or any such thing.

Also, in addition to their many other sterling attributes, Twinkies are essentially vermin-proof. As a case in point, not long before my recent hospitalization, I prepared for myself a hearty meal of two frozen pizzas baked in the oven, a dozen strawberry-flavored Twinkies, and a bottle of Cutty Sark. I felt enormously hungry that evening, and unwrapped all of my Twinkies in advance, in the hopes that the plastic wrapping would not be allowed to impede my gustatory momentum. However, I found myself drinking disproportionately from the bottle, and as a consequence, ate much less solid food than I had anticipated. So, I left the remaining uneaten pizza and unwrapped Twinkies on top of the kitchen table. Little did I know it then, but my extended hospitalization would mean that the food would remain there for a considerable period of time.

Upon my return from the hospital, I found that cockroaches, mice and rats had overrun my kitchen table, since their odorous droppings were all over it. My beloved canine companion, Mr. Twinkle, had also climbed up on the table to eat what remained of the leftover pizza. However, the Twinkies were entirely untouched and in pristine condition. I ate them all right then and there, and let me tell you, they were scrumptious.

Yes, it would be hard to imagine a world without my dearly cherished Twinkies, but it appears that I shall be forced to contemplate such a bleak planet regardless. Watching Fox News the other day, I learned that the Hostess Corporation, the manufacturer of my chief dietary staple, is on the path to certain bankruptcy. My friends, it boggles the mind, it truly does.

"Well, Thurston," you ask with a snicker and a sneer on your filthy commie scumbag face, "how do you suppose that the maker of your favorite food ended up like this? Maybe Twinkies aren't so great after all, are they? Maybe that's your vaunted 'invisible magic hand of the market' culling the weak and worthless from the herd?"

Look here, you festering pool of weasel urine, Hostess would have been just fine if it hadn't been for first lady Michelle Osama and those unionized employees at Hostess.

Besides the fact that she is the alien consort of our current illegitimate extraterrestrial president, and lays thousands of bright pink eggs every thirteen days, just like her husband does, Ms Osama has also dedicated herself to the utter perversion of our dietary habits in the United States. She has falsely decried Twinkies and other delectable American foodstuffs as "garbage," has promoted the consumption of horrendous crap such as unprocessed vegetables and fruits, and to add insult to injury, has advocated positively dangerous and potentially fatal exercise activities, such as sit-ups, push-ups, and brisk walking. Of course, possessing such strong core values as I do, I was not swayed in the least to heed her poisonous counsel, but millions upon millions of weak-minded pawns evidently have, and as a consequence, demand for Twinkies has suffered greatly.

Now, as an important side note, allow me to say that I could personally care less if anyone else in the universe but me ate Twinkies, were it not for the fact that I cannot keep the Hostess Corporation afloat all by myself. Yes, to a significant degree, I am a man of wealth, and I have a most hearty appetite indeed, but even if I were to buy $100,000 worth of Twinkies every week, I still couldn't save the producer of my favorite creme-filled cakes.

I must admit, it would be an interesting challenge to consume $100,000 worth of Twinkies in one week. Not that I could possibly fail at it, mind you.

As for the unionized employees, Hostess was forced by the satanic liberals who run our government to hire a bunch of lousy whiners who want all kinds of unnecessary perks, such as a so-called living wage, full medical benefits, child care, retirement plan, etc. That's what has led the company to bankruptcy.

What was Hostess thinking? Why didn't they just fire those crummy socialist wimps, set up operations in Malaysia, and pay their foreign workers 5 cents an hour with no benefits whatsoever? I'm telling you -- that would have safeguarded Twinkies for centuries to come.

Oh, but no, that's not what Hostess did. Who knows who is running things over there, obviously some namby-pamby, limp-wristed pushover type who just can't bring himself to clean house and save the flipping company. Fire that guy and bring me in as the new CEO, and let me tell you, I'll get Twinkie production up to full capacity in the twinkle of an eye, unionized employees be damned.

"Well," you say, in a lame, misguided and totally unasked-for effort to cheer me up, "if Hostess goes under, some other company will buy them out, and Twinkies will still be made and sold to the public."

Listen here, how far exactly do you have your head shoved up your hindquarters? Ten billion light-years? What do you suppose will happen when another company takes over the manufacture of my precious Twinkies? Do you honestly think that they will maintain the perfect confectionary recipe for my beloved snack, untouched? What guarantees do we have that they will not attempt to fix what is not broken, what assurances can possibly be made that they will not hire a bunch of sinister, scheming, vile and contemptible culinary consultants who will profane what is holy, who will violate the sacrosanct, and who will stitch together a Frankenstein version of the Twinkie, an imposter, a false copy, a detestable abomination? Lightning flashes, thunder rumbles, dark and threatening clouds amass in the distance -- evil is afoot in the land.

Alas, despite my vast powers, regardless of my formidable and unbreakable will, I must concede that, when it comes to safeguarding the production of my chief source of sustenance, my friends, I am utterly powerless. At this point, all I can do is to stockpile in anticipation of the imminent Twinkie Armageddon.

I just recently bought an entire delivery van load of Twinkies, which are now stored under lock and key in my spacious backyard shed, now filled wall-to-wall with my crucial creme-filled rations. I'm currently contemplating having an electronic alarm system installed for the shed. Perhaps you laugh, but I'm telling you, once Hostess goes out of business, there's no telling to what lengths some people will go in order to get their hands on the real deal. As the saying goes, you don't know what you've got until it's gone. And quite soon, we'll all find out what a Twinkie-less world is like, and let me tell you, folks, it isn't going to be pretty at all. You've been forewarned.

"Won't you tell me where my country lies?" said the unifaun to his true love's eyes...