Maybe it’s because I never expected Jimmy Stewart to be immortal. I never held the belief that The Three Stooges would live forever anywhere other than the silver screen. Truly, I have never felt a public loss in such a personal way.
What will folks joke will survive the apocalypse beside the cockroach?
That squishy golden sponge, the sugary rush of cream, and a sweet synthetic aroma. Is this experience lost to the ages? Will it only live on in my heart?
What will they call young, muscular gay men? What about Asians that are “white on the inside?”
The Twinkie culture has bled all over me, influencing my favorite cinema. From the Twinkie analogy in Ghostbusters to Bob-oh’s favorite dish in “Weird Al” Yankovic’s masterpiece UHF. There are references to the tasty treat in Deer Hunter, Die Hard, Iron Giant, and Wall-E. But now I will only truly be able to appreciate Woody Harrelson’s fruitless search in Zombieland.
What will be my deep-fried standard at the county fair? Will I never taste a Twinkie wiener sandwich?
Goodbye, Ho-Ho. So long, Ding Dong. Cheerio, Cup Cake. Adieu, Suzy Q. Ciao, Zinger. Bye-bye, Fruit and Pudding Pie. Adios, Donette. Godspeed, Banana Dream. Au revoir, Honey Buns. Toodle-oo, Yodel and Funny Bone and Ring Ding and Devil Dog. Sayonara, Wonder Bread and Nature’s Pride. I will mourn the whole Hostess family, from the vanished Christmas fruitcake to the morning coffee now divorced from my Dunkin Stix.
What will courts now call a sugar-high influenced murder spree defense?
Rest in peace, dear Twinkie. We didn’t love you enough.