Smarties
Two parts granulated sugar, one part bone meal, the ‘Smartie’ is one of those pointless Halloween candies that don’t seem to exist except in October. I defy anyone reading this to document a single time they’ve had a smartie that wasn’t first dropped in pumpkin-shaped bucket by a distracted middle-aged man while yelling at his contractor on the phone. “There’s been a hole in my backyard since August! You told me two weeks!– Happy Halloween, kids, what are you, a ferret or something? Slam! –Two weeks you told me!”
Red Hots
Some people really like these, but they are a bad Halloween candy. Why? Because kids have no self-control and in the post-trick-or-treat gluttony that marks the holiday, these never fail to find themselves in a happy mouth filled with toffee and chocolate turning it into a profane ball of jalapeño particulate. Blech! Start from zero because everything before and quite a bit after is ruined.
Tootsie Rolls
Bane of the brace-wearer, these faux-Chocolatey tubes of boat pitch have caused over 24 billion dollars in unnecessary orthodontics. Otherwise, they are excellent exercise for the jaw muscles. Look at the kid’s faces during Thanksgiving dinner, their mandibles will be as square as an East German powerlifter’s with the compression force of a cave bear. Watch them chew the turkey’s bones as they look you dead in the eye.
Candy Corn
Why?–That’s not a cruel thing to ask, I mean, step back. Candy. Corn. Fucking why? They don’t taste like corn. And they don’t look like corn kernels, except the thin yellow layer at the top, what corn kernel have you ever seen becomes orange and then white at the tip. So, I reiterate: Candy Corn. Fucking why?
Root Beer Barrels
You know the best time to have root beer, after it sat out all night on the counter rendering it warm and flat—and hey, if only they could put that winning medicinal flavor into a hardened shape that’s too awkward to hold comfortably in the mouth, forcing you to slurp your own spit back in your head every five seconds until it eventually dissolves, sometime after the news.
Big Jelly Beans
Of all the low effort ways to convince a child not to egg your house, just throw fat balls of glazed gelatin at them, preferably coming in a wide variety of colors but not nearly as wide a variety of flavors. Big Jelly Beans (as opposed to Jelly Bellies, which I personally adore) come in twelve colors but only three flavors, which are: “What the Hell is That, Pine?” , “I Wanna Say Cherry” and “Oh, That’s a Skunk’s Ass!’ usually colored black.
Bit O’Honey
Hard but soft. Honey-ish, but not bee-honey, more like yellow-jacket. This confusing rectangle has been the enigma of the pumpkin pail for 80 years. It’s not appetizing but still manages to be prevalent, and their origin is a mystery, I’ve been looking my whole life, but I have failed to ever see a bag of Bit O’Honey in the store. It lends credence to the theory that it is government issued as a way to rid federal warehouses of obsolete fire retardant. Think I’m jokin’? Alex Jones did a whole thing on it.
Circus Peanuts
Mark my words, I’m going to find the asshole whose idea this was, lock him in a dark basement with ten rats and a sandwich, then watch through night-vision closed circuit as he blindly decides to capitulate to death or survive heroically. Then, after he defeats the last rat, I will electronically open a hatch and throw a bucket of these disgusting orange marshmallowey abominations down to him as his only source of sustenance and I will laugh, I will laugh as the gypsies do at the undoing of my enemy! HA! HaHah! HaHahHaHahAh!
Raisins
Let me get this straight. I dress up, I’m Iron Man this year, I’m lookin’ pretty cool, I knock on your door and expect a gratuity for my effort and let’s face it, my dashing good looks. You knew I was coming, you decorated your house, all the lights are on, the social contract that keeps us from tyranny seems to be in perfect working order—BUT!– when I hold out my bucket so you may perform your old-womanly duty, what do you give me? Raped Grapes in red box!
–Beeitch! You best go back in that kitchen, rifle through the fridge and get me something I can use, a jar of olives, a bottle of cocktail sauce, an unopened can of SPAM, all of these are superior to a box of raisins. It’s an insult, I don’t know to who, to me or my parents, but lady, you best come back with something face-saving because I am amped on Mountain Dew and I will take a two-quart piss in your mailbox should my reasonable demands remain unmet. Now be off with you, and know that Iron Man does not speak in vain!
Mary Jane
Satan did this. This is his work. Not only am I convinced that these brick-hard chunks of fossilized peanut butter were not made in America, I have strong suspicions they were forged in the bowels of a subterranean city occupied by lizard-men and these inedible bits of masonry were what sustained them in their long hibernation before they emerge to rule the warm-bloods on the surface, their hubris finally broken!
What other explanation is there? These…are not candy. They are not even food. They are industrial caulk, allowed to harden and packaged in poorly printed wax paper, distributed annually to unsuspecting children who believe that the lizard men are their friends and only want them to have a good time.
Poor children. Innocent, trusting little meat-bags. Your foes have yet to rise, but rise they will, with pockets full of this crap.
If you assist these lizard-men in their evil plan, I got no pity for ya’. Eggs. Bags of poo. Fetal pigs hanging by a noose from your doorknob. Subscriptions to Backward Ass Magazine—the whole gamut.
Leave a Reply