Thursday, July 15, 2004


I have been gorging myself on “Gobstoppers” all day today and reliving old indulgences of my misspent cavity-laden youth and I think that in the process I stumbled upon the newest addiction in my already bad habit rich life. Yes, it looks like the already longtime settled monkeys on my back are going to be getting another sugary, delicious, Technicolor little brother. Who knew that the dynamic combination of Dextrose, Glucose Syrup, Maltodextrin, Malic Acid, Artificial Flavor, Caranuba Wax, and Tartrazine would produce such a delectably sweet result? Either that, or it’s actually the secret Alchemists formula devised by Sir Thomas Aquinas to turn lead into gold.

I wonder if it’s possible that one could innocently grow helplessly hooked on Caranuba Wax and would begin to severely jones like Judd Nelson at a Bristol-Meyers company picnic if they were ever denied their regular fix. First, it would simply start as an innocent one Gobstopper every couple of hours habit "just for kicks", then an entire box a day. Before you know it you’re cutting up Popeye Cigarette’s with a credit card on the coffee table and snorting it up through empty Pixisticks. Gobstoppers could totally be considered a “gateway candy” for harder more serious candies!

Sooner than later, you’d have to resort to a seedy lifestyle of breaking into neighbor’s homes and local convenience stores to support your candy habit and may even end up whoring out your own grandmother on street corners for Pop-Rocks. You could even end up shamelessly working as a mule by smuggling illegal Jube-Jubes back and forth across the border.

Already, given my well-known addictive personality, I can envision myself banging on the door of my dealer in the wee hours of the morning desperately hoping to secure “just a little taste” of my sweet, sweet, Caranuba Wax to see me through until the next big score. Even sadder would be the inevitable sugar crash after that big score fails to materialize and I am reduced to withdrawl symptoms and spent my days curled up under my cot at the Candy Rehab Center with the shakes and breaking out with the cold sweat that begins to ooze out of my pours with drops the size of Oomp-Loompa’s, and creepy-crawly Pez candies begin to work their way under my skin.

Sad indeed.


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