Chocodiles

About a month ago I wrote the fine people at Hostess, complaining in a strongly worded missive how I couldn’t find Chocodiles anywhere. I gave them a good scolding and anxiously awaited their reply. One week later I opened up my mailbox to find a letter from Interstate Foods, the parent company of Hostess. Inside that letter they thanked me for my interest in their products. Attached was a coupon for one free Hostess item.

I’m no fool, my friends. I wasn’t going to go for just a two-pack of Twinkies or a delightful package of Ho-Hos. Who the hell do you think I am? No, I was going to wait until the Hostess Fruit Cake hit the shelves. And hit the shelves it did, like a four pound turd. And like that imaginary turd, people left it alone. But not me. I gathered that turd in my arms and promised to love it forever.

The Hostess Fruit Cake is good eatin’, pals. And like the cycle of life, I returned the fruit cake to its original form. That of a four pound turd.

But that was only the beginning of my good luck. No sooner had I flushed that fruit cake than I spotted the item that had started my odyssey off in the first place: the elusive Chocodile. I ate and ate and ate. But, not thinking ahead, soon they were gone. I was depressed. Coming down off my processed food stuff high, I was first confused, then angry, and then finally accepting.

But like life itself, the Chocodiles are magic. When one Chocodile is eaten, another is created, and the next week I spotted the Chocodiles at a different convenience store. And the next week at yet another. Folks, this is no joke. I’ve asked the Chocodile to marry me and it has enthusiastically accepted. Wiping away our tears we shared a long, deep kiss. And then I swallowed that Chocodile whole.

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