I am sick of your incessant candy ass bellyaching over the impending Twinkie meltdown.
To hell with your sweet creamy centers. I don't care.
And while we're at it, to hell-hell with Ho-Hos as well-well. Have I ever peeled the "chocolate" coating off one of those mothers, unrolled the "cake" and removed the "cream" with my finger one bit at a time, licking off each smear? That's none of your goddamn business. Kiss my ass.
Sno Balls are an abomination. Ding Dong your schlong.
I was going to try this recipe and blog about it, with pictures and a Goat/Lil' OB taste test and all, until I got to this part: You will need a spice bottle, approximately the size of a Twinkie, ten 12 x 14 -inch pieces of aluminum foil, a cake decorator or pastry bag, and a chopstick.
Spice bottle? A chopstick? What the hell are we talking about here, a recipe or a scavenger hunt?
ATTENTION: Will someone please cue up an indignant rightie on his/her "The Mean Ol' Unions Took My Twinkies Away" rant?
I am in the process of developing the Plinkie. It'll be a cupcake thing (made from the cheapest generic yellow cake mix money can buy) with a dime-sized dot of red frosting/filling (the really shitty kind that comes in a tube that you squeeze) in the middle. Thing'll look like a boob. I'll wrap 'em up in plastic and sell them for a buck apiece via one of those self-serve type stands in my front yard (like one of your oldsters with their tomato and zucchini stands in the summer), complete with a coffee can to put your dollar(s) in and a stack of paper bags.
Yeah, I know. People will come and steal some cupcakes or money or bags. Maybe I'll put a secret cam out there and record who does what, live stream it on the Internet so you can find out if your boss or Aunt Gerrilyn is stealing Erin O'Brien's boob Plinkies, the miserable bastards.
Guess that's enough for now. Stay tuned, boppers.
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