Dear Hostess

Dear Hostess,
We’been through it all, you and I. You’re an American treasure. You put the fat in “fat kid.” No, seriously, you’re snacks are, like, really bad for you. The way I see it, you folks are probably responsible for at least 5% of childhood obesity in America.
But let’s forget about the fat kids. Wait, that sounded harsh… let’s forget about the kids who are guaranteed a future of heart problems and diabetes. Because let’s face it, this isn’t about them.
This is about you. You and your Twinkies, and your Ho-Hos, and your Sno Balls. Noticing a pattern here? i’ll give you a hint, think of the vaguely pornographic…
Well, if you haven’t gotten it by now, you don’t deserve to be in the fast-paced world of the snack cake industry. All of your names have their own little meanings. I bet you’d be shocked with what you could find if you just took the time to Urban Dictionary half these things. Why, I still remember the shock on my sister’s face as I explained to her just why I always laugh when I see Twinkies. “Oh, I just thought it was, like, the dessert…” she said, still slightly in shock. So thanks a lot Hostess. Thanks to your crass names, paired with my immaturity, I’m pretty sure she’s scarred.
Sincerely,
Traumatized Twinkie Eater

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