Diet Coke-Babies

Despite the fact that my two previous vending machine disasters should have taught me to stick with what I know, I had no say in the matter.  There were only two possible reasons for what was happening to my thought process: someone had a voodoo doll in my image, or Loki himself was trying to make my work life even worse than usual.  These two theories, and these two alone, are the only plausible reasons for the tragic downturn I had taken.  For as questionable as my last two decisions had been, they were about to get far worse.

In most circumstances, I have no problem buying a store brand, unless it is America’s Choice (Waldbaum’s brand, for any non-northeasterners) version of Frosted Mini-Wheats.  They decided to use the recipe for Post’s mini-wheats, as opposed to the FAR superior Kellog’s version.  Come on!  Point being, I am not a food snob.  Well, I kind of am.  I’m just not a snob about things worth having an arrogant opinion on, such as wine or steak.  My snobbishness is reserved for more low-brow consumables such as soda or cereal.

The main reason for buying store brand food is, obviously, to save money.  This oftentimes is a good alternative, since store brands are usually the exact same thing as a major brand, or close enough to be acceptable.  Not every store brand item is good, however, such as the aforementioned frosted shredded wheat.  Store brand cat food also tends to look as bad as it tastes.  Buying cheap food can sometimes do more harm than good.  If you follow the advice of the guy in the Malt-O-Meal commercials, you will indeed save money.  However, walking in his bizarre crouch in order to see the bottom shelf could do permanent damage to your knees, and at the very least it could give you bad posture.  All to save fifty cents on a bagged cereal?  Well, you’ve got to take the good with the bad, I suppose.

The fact of the matter is, I am not averse to swallowing my pride and swallowing the occasional “Circus-O’s”, or some other lacking-in-creativity named store brand product.  These are perfectly reasonable purchases to make, when it will save you money.  What doesn’t make sense is purchasing store brand-quality items, when they cost exactly the same as name brand items.

It seems that one day I was in the mood for Starbursts.  At the same time, I didn’t want something that tasted as good.  If only there was some way to get a candy that was similar in taste, texture, and packaging to Starbursts, yet at the same time it should be of noticeably inferior quality.  No, I did not purchase Mamba, and you would be a fool for thinking Mamba to be an inferior candy.  It is only inferior when the random assortment you get in a Mamba package includes lemon instead of raspberry.  Despite my mood for bad fruit flavors, I was not quite ready to get a candy as terrible as Jolly Rancher chews.  Unfortunately, I wound up purchasing that was far worse than even those lowly Jolly Rancher chews.  

Apparently, the name of the candy is “Intense Fruit Chews!”.  Normally, that is the description of a candy, placed just below the logo.  Instead, that horrible choice for a name is, in fact, the actual name of the candy.  I don’t know what possessed me to buy them.  They don’t look very appealing, the name is suspicious, and the packaging is rather garish and unattractive.  Making my choice seem even worse is the fact that I had my choice of regular, Tropical, or Baja California Starbursts.  Sadly, I had not yet begun to notice my pattern of terrible candy-related decisions, so my guard was not up.

On a related note, the blue Baja Dragonfruit California Starburst is the best flavor of Starburst… period.  Suck on that, Strawberry.

Looking more closely at the package, things were quickly going from bad to worse to worst thing ever.  While examining the abstract fruit illustrated on the side, the symbols were forming some sort of pagan message, delivering an artificially flavored monologue of the untold pain and suffering that was soon to be an overwhelming part of my day.  The first fruit I spotted was watermelon, and that was more than fine with me.  As previously mentioned, watermelon is always in the top echelon of candy flavors.  The next flavor, cherry, was a sign of things to come.  I very rarely like cherry flavored candy (cherry Starbursts are vile); oddly enough, probably my favorite cherry “candy” is Luden’s cough drops (“The candy you can eat in class!”).

The very unfortunate fact is that despite my usual dislike of cherry candy, it was not the worst flavor.  For as I looked at the next crude drawing of fruit, I spotted an apple.  A green apple.  My emotions were equal parts sadness and rage.  Now, at the very least, 25% of the candy would find its way into the garbage.  As bad as the situation seemed, it was about to reach the apex of tragedy, as that 25% was about to double.  The last, and final flavor, was banana.  Dear God.

Oh… phew.  It wasn’t banana, it was lemon.  They should make that distinction much more clear.  If you’re going to draw a lemon on your wrapper, make it look as little like a banana as possible.    Hell, list the flavor as “Lemon (NOT Banana – We Swear!)”.

I’m not going to get into why banana candy is terrible.  It just is.  What I find most shocking is when candy companies just include banana in the assortment, like it’s a normal thing to do.  If they were “Tropical” candy, my guard would be up, since tropical assortments often try to include some sort of bananic* travesty.  Tropical Starbursts are safe, since they wisely avoid any banana involvement.  Although they do include pina colada, which for some reason makes my mouth numb.

*Not a real word.

With some candy, the inclusion of banana is okay, as they have a grandfather clause allowing them to proceed with this most misguided assortment.  Take Runts, for example.  You know that unless you have a friend who likes the banana flavor that you can pass them all off on, that you will throw some of the candy away.  That is okay, since the rest of the flavors are so good, that the yellow sacrifices are an acceptable loss.  Although the banana recipient will, eventually, complain about only getting banana.  Despite their love for the flavor, everyone truly desires the other flavors more.

The inclusion of banana and green apple is simply unacceptable.  Candy that contains eitherof these flavors should have some type of warning label, similar to the ones the UK puts on cigarette packages.  If it has both flavors, it simply should not be sold to the public.

Luckily, there wasn’t any banana.  But if there was… (insert fist grinding into palm motion here).

Like a baby, I was distracted and enticed by the bright colors of the package.  However stupid my excuse for buying it was, at least it was something.  For my last mistake there was, quite literally, no excuse.

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t like caramel.  Which is odd, because I like Rolos and caramel Twix.  Even still, caramel in general unsettles me.  Considering that, it becomes impossible to find any sort of reason why I felt it was a good idea to purchase Goetze’s Caramel Creams.  They do not look appealing in the least.  Quite the opposite, in fact; they look rather unappetizing to the point of being flat out disgusting.  Rolls of thick caramel, encasing some sort of “cream” filling (another very suspicious aspect of this candy), mashed together to fit inside the sparsely designed packaging.

This was the final straw.  I had gone from making bad decisions to making potentially dangerous ones.  Were these things even safe to eat?  They look like something you would be forced to touch in a carnival haunted house.  The Caramel Creams defy any need for explanation.  Pointing out reasons why buying them was a mistake is nothing if not redundant.

Horrible aesthetics and taste aside, the brand name itself is terrible.  Goetze?  That’s unfortunate.  When eating any type of food, I don’t want the subject of Goatse brought up.  This is especially true when eating soft, brown and white chewy mush.

Before I banish this candy to the Island of Misfit Dietary Mistakes, I will point out that their logo is kind of awesome.  Not the logo you see above; that is the old packaging.  I guess Google images hasn’t kept up with the hot craze of caramel cream-related merchandise.  That old chef is gone.  Probably because he brought too many comparisons to that bastard Wendell from the Cinnamon Toast Crunch box.  The man who murdered the other two bakers, Bob and Quello, so he could hog the spotlight.  No, the new chef new and definitely improved.

Now the mascot is this big, fat, dumb looking chef grinning from ear to ear of his odd, misshapen head.  So, kudos for that, Goatze.  Your blissfully ignorant cartoon chef has distracted me slightly from the candy itself, improving my Caramel Cream experience from a sorrowful descent into hell, to merely a disgusting, sticky ordeal.  Although I must object to the chef brandishing an oversized wooden spoon, because we know what it is used for… to stir the cream.

Thankfully, with Halloween right around the corner, I am able to wander around and take candy from the pumpkins on my co-workers desks when they aren’t there.  If I took candy when they were there, not only would I be required to talk to them, it would require extra small talk, as a form of payment for the candy.  At least then when I make a mistake, such as discovering Hershey’s Pecans and Cream involves white chocolate, I can chalk it up to a lesson I learned for free.  I had a candy jar on my desk last year, but no one ever took anything from it.  I assume the reasoning behind it is that I filled it with candy that no one really likes except for me, such as Heath bars and those peanut butter chews wrapped in black or orange wax paper.  Since that didn’t work out, I think this year I might just give pennies to people who walk by my desk.

I’m figuring the best case scenario involves me squirreling away other people’s candy in my desk, to tide me over for a while.  Have fun at your meeting… I’ll be here taking Kit Kats for the next twenty minutes.  Oh, you’re taking a half day?  Awesome.  Enjoy your soon to be emptied pumpkin.  

Anything it takes to keep me away from the vending machine.

While I probably wouldn’t be considered stupid by the majority of the public, I have recently begun noticing that I make some suspicious choices when under pressure.  I have already broached the subject of my inability to properly decide and place my order in fast food restaurants, especially in the drive thru.  Presumably, a normal person would take advantage of their time spent waiting in line by deciding what they will order.  On the other hand, I usually just stare into space or look at the serial numbers on my dollar bills to see if any of them say 955, since apparently I think 95.5 WPLJ’s promotion circa 1988 is still valid.  When I get to the front of the line, I lose it and just spit out an order with enough food for three people.

For some reason, I am finding myself making ridiculous choices more often when faced with another food related situation: vending machines at work.  I don’t eat too much candy at work, since if I allowed myself the option, I would literally sit there all day eating it like a male version of Cathy.  This is also why even though I buy multiple boxes of fruit snacks, I only bring in a packet per day.  A few weeks ago I figured I would save myself a step and just keep the whole box in one of my drawers, and I wound up eating an entire box of America’s Choice Sharks fruit snacks in the span of about three hours.  And that was while attempting to pace myself.

So most candy I bring in is hard candy.  However, sometimes I feel like I need a reward, for having made it through the day without killing myself.  It is in these times of fulfillment where I find myself face to pane with my candy dispensing co-worker.  In theory, buying something from a vending machine should be no problem; there’s no ordering pressure.  If there is someone who wants something from it, I let them go ahead of me, giving one of those idiotic half-smiles while mumbling “I don’t know what I want yet.”  Unfortunately, I usually emphasize the “mumbling” aspect too much, so I wind up looking like some creep who likes hanging out in front of vending machines while talking to myself.  Although that’s probably a step up for my reputation at work, so hey, bonus.

The vending machine also lacks human interaction, and that is a definite plus for me.  What I’m beginning to hypothesize is that since the purchasing procedure is so simple, I have begun to get cocky and even worse, I have begun to get adventurous.  For reasons unbeknownst to myself, buying something I already know I like seems like a waste.  The vending machine usually has Snyder’s honey mustard pretzels, dark chocolate peanut M&Ms, tropical Starbursts, and lots of other good stuff, so a lack of good options isn’t an excuse.

This whole problem started about two months ago.  While perusing my options, I noticed an “extra crispy” Big Kat.  “Now with twice the crisp!” screamed the packaging.  Why this intrigued me, I don’t know.  Especially since I hate Big Kats.  I love Kit Kats, and hate Big Kats for the fact that they have too much crisp.  Why the hell would them adding more crisp make me want to try it?  Had there been a bowl of fun size extra crispy Big Kats in someone’s Halloween candy jar, sure, giving it a chance makes sense.  But by choosing the extra crispy Big Kat over other vending machine options, I was denying myself so many far superior choices.  

Here’s the strangest part of the whole story… it wound up being really good.  I learned that by taking a chance and giving it a second try, I got to enjoy something I might have never had again.

Actually, that’s a lie.  It sucked.  Compounding my disappointment was the fact that I knew it would suck, and that I would hate it.  Why would I buy it?  Is it some sort of passive-aggressive acting out of my subconscious, trying to get me to harm myself in the wimpiest way possible?  Is this the high fructose corn syrup version of cutting?  I have no answers.

You might be assuming that this experience should have taught me a valuable lesson, that from then on I should stick to reliable sources of vitamin Sugar.  I was determined that the next time I bought a snack, it would have to not only be delicious, it would have to be extra delicious in order to make up for my previous mistake.  Well, as the saying goes, “Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on Jerry Seinfeld.”  And if that isn’t the actual phrase, it should be, because the wacky arguing of the ambulance drivers in one of the early episodes of Seinfeld is the only reason I can fathom for why I made my next decision.

In theory, buying Chuckles doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea.  They seem like a good candy, and Chuckles don’t attempt to hide the fact that they are absolutely devoid of any nutritional value.  Anything that is coated in a layer of visible sugar can’t be all bad. I see them everywhere but have never heard of anyone in real life eating them; but if they’re still being sold, someone must be buying them.  And a few weeks ago, for reasons that will never be quite known, I became one of those people.

Already, this purchase was better than the extra crispy Big Kat, since I didn’t go into it knowing I would hate it.  I just bought it knowing it was sort of an old people candy that I have never had the slightest bit of interest in.  It was a strange decision, but at least it had a small bit of logic.  I sort of like those Sunkist Fruit Gems, which seemed similar to Chuckles.  Unlike Chuckles, I had never actually purchased Fruit Gems, only eaten them when they found their way into my possession.

I sat down and opened the package of Chuckles, which proceeded to dump approximately half a cup of loose sugar into my lap.  Off to a great start.  It took about ten minutes to get the sugar off me, as it is made of a space-age polymer that resists being brushed off, and instead clings to every pant fiber like a tick.  

What could possibly make or break my entire week was the decision I was making… should I eat the suspiciously colored Chuckle?  It was a dark blue-purple, and in certain lights could be considered black.  Chuckles is an old school candy, born and bred in a time when nonchalantly inserting a black licorice flavored candy was considered socially acceptable.  At the same time, the flavor could be grape, and passing up grape candy is normally foolishness of the highest degree.  The dark Chuckle was not giving off any tells of the flavor it contained.  Its smell was vaguely unpleasant, but not in the typical black licorice revulsion way.  Not that I was entirely thrilled at the prospect of eating a candy that tasted like grape jelly.  Grape candy is fantastic, but grape jelly-esque candy?  Kind of creepy.  

In retrospect, the size of the bite I took was far too bold of a step; I had bitten off the majority of the piece.  My boldness would soon spell my doom, as I quickly found myself sodomized by flavor.  The black licorice awfulness, which had been patiently hiding itself within the Chuckle, suddenly attacked my taste buds from every angle.  I was panicking.  Trying desperately to remove the flavor as soon as possible, I quickly put the entire lime Chuckle in my mouth and devoured it.  I dodged a bullet in that it actually did turn out to be lime and not green apple.  Black licorice and green apple together could form a flavor villainy that would not hesitate to kill a man.  Fortunately, the lime Chuckle did a decent job of reducing the black licorice flavor in my mouth.  I can’t actually say whether the lime Chuckle was that good or not, as its sole purpose was palate cleansing.  It died so that my taste buds could live.  Farewell, brave green Chuckle.  

After eating the red Chuckle, I realized that I lucked out by choosing the green one to wash out the black licorice flavor.  Had I eaten the red Chuckle immediately after, it is very possible that my tongue would have melted.  Quite simply, the red Chuckle tastes like the worst aspects of Robitussin and Chloraseptic combined.  Looking on the bright side, I assumed the last two Chuckles would have to be better, if only by default.  The lemon one was pretty decent and the orange was quite good.  

My innocent decision to try Chuckles turned into a fearful adventure similar to Indiana Jones being chased by the giant boulder, if the giant boulder had caught up to him and crushed him.

As you may have guessed (if you have decided to actively participate), this was not the end of my horrible snack-related decision making.  In fact, my battle was only halfway over.

In other words… fifty percent.