Remembering the dearly departed

 

Twinkie died this week at 82. Try as I might, I could not hide my emotions covering the snack food’s somber funeral. A sympathetic Bakers Union guy took pity on me, sharing his last Ding Dong. Crumbs and tears at Twinkie’s grave as alleged mourners trash-talked the deceased.

James Dewar, Twinkie in happier days

San Francisco Supervisor Dan White had chowed down on Twinkies before murdering Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk, a grim preacher intoned, quoting the Wikipedia profile of James Alexander Dewar, Twinkie’s father, which viciously claimed [since deleted] that his offspring had “killed millions of Americans.”

His reverence then reminded the bereaved that Woody Harrelson had fueled his brutal rampage against the living dead in “Zombieland” by devouring mass quantities of the “spongy, yellow, delicious bastards.” I slumped in my chair.

What of the generations of school kids who’d found Twinkies lovingly tucked into their lunch boxes and gleefully gobbled them down, killing no one? You’d think we were laying a serial killer to rest. Why such disrespect?

The American icon did not succumb, as rumored, to the nine grams of fat and 54 carbs in each twin pack. Twinkie was victim of changing tastes, those incorrigible energy bars, and a murderous CEO yet to be brought to justice. But even in death Twinkie looked so natural, so luscious, so irresistible. I restrained my necro-cannibalistic urges. The service continued.

Try one tomorrow. Open it and it all comes back: the high tones of saccharine vanilla and, just after you eat it, that distinctive aftertaste. It burns slightly; it’s chemical, and speaks of interstate gas station stores, bad choices, and poverty.
—Mike Daisey, The Guardian

Guardian writer Mike Daisey gossiped shamelessly, whispering urban myths to giggling attendees, slandering the lovably-squishy sponge cake and the creamy secret goo squirted into its innards. Please, a little decorum?

Author Steve Ellinger of “Twinkie, Deconstructed” fame had performed an autopsy on Twinkie’s corpse and solemnly droned a litany of his findings: “Polysorbate 60, Corn Syrup, Dextrose, Glucose, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Partially Hydrogenated Vegetable and/or Animal Shortening, Soy Lecithin, Soy Protein Isolate...” It was all too much.

As I walked from the cemetery, my despair was diminished only by the realization that no one in the GOP had accused the Obama administration of somehow perpetrating Twinkie’s demise. Pat Robertson had searched the Bible but laid blame on no one. At least there’s that.

Still, a contingent of young gay dudes seemed inconsolable. “I’ve been called a Twink since middle school,” sniffed one. “I feel like part of me has died.”

Life is short, and not always fair. Even for a sponge cake.