You Ain't Twinkies!

They’re all looking at you, man. They’re all saying, “How’d they let it happen? How could they be so careless and cowardly? How could they just sit there and shrivel up, like a… like a… well, like a bag of dried fruit?” That’s right, dried fruit. I’m talking to you. No, don’t look over there on the other shelf like I’m talking to the canned fruit. At least they still have some integrity. Yeah, I know, they may be freshly sealed in a perfect little plastic cup, but at least they still have some character, some soul, some juice. You guys have completely sold out to preservatives. Look at you! You and your ungodly long shelf-life, all “best if used by: 08/2011.” 2011? Who do you think you are? Twinkies? You ain’t Twinkies, man, you’re fruit. Act like it!

Coconut, I’m gonna’ talk to you first. You used to be so sweet, so luscious. I could crack you open and live off of your juices for days, months if we were on a deserted island together. Now look at you. You’re all shredded up. Like some carrot. Did they use the same contraption on you that they use on carrots? I know, you don’t know any fruit, you guys went to different schools, but you know what I’m sayin’. They’ve turned you into some kind of flake, some kind of sliver. You used to be cool, man. We used to be cool.

Next is the pineapple. I just don’t exactly know what they did to you. They have somehow changed your whole molecular structure. You used to sit at the bottom of those cakes while they cooked in the oven, and then I would flip you upside-down and you’d be all golden and sweet. You used to sit on the edge of my glass, ever so sultry and seductive, while I sipped my Pina Colada. And we would just look into each other’s eyes, knowing that once that last bit of frozen drink slipped down my throat, you and I were going to have some fun. Oh, we had some times, didn’t we, pineapple? Now you’re just different. I don’t even know what to say about you. Your texture has completely changed, and not for the better. It’s just indescribable. I have to say, I’m not at all attracted to you anymore. You’re still pretty sweet though, I have to give you that. But don’t go telling the raisin I told you that.

I have to say, raisin, you’re the worst of them all. You’ve been at this for some time, I know. I remember, you guys all moved out to California in the eighties and put on your bow ties and your Ray-Bans. What was the name of that song? Was that Marvin Gaye? You guys are never easy to talk to because your whole name changed when they dried you out. Look at papaya and apricot over there. At least they remember where they came from. At least they have retained some semblance of roots. You guys move out west and make a couple million and just forgot all about your family and your friends – all the little people. Changing your name was just the final slap in the face. As if it was somehow a hindrance, as if your fans would love you any less as the “California Dried Grapes.” Now all you do is sit out by your pools with your bottles of sun tan oil and your fancy friends and your designer drugs and your imported French champagne. By the way, do you know what’s in that champagne? Do you, you cannibal?

I just don’t know what else I can say to you. Just sit up on the shelf there. Don’t mind me. Soon enough some soccer-mom with her spandex and her ponytail and her Lexus SUV, trying to pack more healthful snacks for little Suzy and Johnny, will put you in her cart – right next to her sun chokes and bean sprouts and cilantro. Yeah… have fun at that house. I bet they’re not even allowed to watch T.V. And you know, Johnny and Suzy are just going to trade you for cheese puffs anyways. That’s right; you’re going to end up in the lunch room trash, cuddling up to some carrot slices and a wet retainer.