In Defense of Twizzlers

Ho Hos. Peeps. Jack in the Box onion rings. We all have it – that low-end dish or snack item that tops our own personal food pyramid. What's yours? All week, we'll ask some of our favorite writers to dig deep and cough up their favorites.

God, I love Twizzlers.

Especially chocolate ones.

One of my fondest memories of my wayward youth was spinning on a bar stool at Long Wong's in Tempe, drinking Jack Daniels out of my purse, and eating a whole bag of chocolate Twizzlers in one sitting.

If you love something enough, you can never find shame in it.

I don't remember if I vomited that night or not, but chances were good that there were little bits of brown candy embedded in between every tooth, so I think it's safe to say I probably went home alone. Probably.
And it's probably the reason I don't have any surprise Jack Daniels-begotten children today.

Twizzlers are an excellent birth control device.

I knew a girl from those days who got drunk, went home with a roadie, and had a Roadie Baby nine months later. Not even baby from a guy in band, but the roadie. THAT'S SHAME. If you had eaten a bag of chocolate Twizzlers, Staci, you might have hooked up later with a SINGER.

And had a better-looking baby.

Anyway, I love Twizzlers, and I will never apologize for my loyalty to them. My friend says they taste like soap, and if that's true, I want a case of those Twizzler soaps. When I moved to Oregon, however, she was the one who sent me chocolate Twizzlers in the mail because Oregon is an uncivilized place and Twizzlers apparently tested poorly next to spelt chips and tempeh, which is what most of the pasty, sluggish Oregonians eat. It's a great litmus test; offer a Twizzler to someone, and if they refuse, you know everything you need to know about them or a person. Friend or foe. Or just plain stupid.

Frankly, I'm going to be interred in a casket woven of chocolate Twizzlers, so if they bury me when I'm not really dead but only overdosed on something good, I can have a snack that will energize me so I have the will to dig my way out.

Twizzlers gave me diabetes. AND I FORGIVE THEM.

I've even eaten sugar-free Twizzlers, which are fine for three bites and then start to taste like Band-Aids. Eat more than four, and you can propel yourself to the nearest space object using malitol as your fuel.

I've almost gotten there.

So there you have it: Twizzlers can raise the dead, prevent less-than attractive babies, and shoot you to the moon or Mars if you eat seven.

No other candy even comes close to the potential.