July 24, 2003

An entirely unintended consequence of the fact that, when I was growing up my father owned a supermarket, is that I have a sweet tooth that cannot be satisfied. Ever.

I love candy. And cookies, brownies, and milkshakes. Candy and variegated sweets in all of their gorgeous forms. Don’t even try to stop me.

The fact that my father owned a store, a haven that for years fed my unyielding hankerings -- the same yearnings, by the way, for which my parents paid dearly at the dentist’s office [Ed.: See nos. 86 through 93.] -- spared me that rite of youthful passage known as, well, “shoplifting.”

What? Huh? I need to rip off the Wheelers with a Milky Way bar to prove myself to you guys? I don’t think so. What the hell are we doing here anyway? Let’s go across the street. It’s free there. And legal.

I mean, please . . . I had at my disposal all the candy my friends and I could eat and then some.


But I’ve yet to grow out of this. I’m still a candy nut.

And today I tried something new, something called “Snickers Crunchier.”

I bought it.


I brought it home.

I froze it.

I broke it.

And then I ate it.

And in the immortal words of Homer Simpson: Uuuugh . . . Amazing!


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