Hostess Peach Pie

  My wife and I went out for dinner the other night. One of our favorite places. A place that was once visited by Seventhia. Thankfully, she nor her helicopter parents or their royal – pain in ass – entourage were there this time. We ate our meal and had great conversation. We didn’t get dessert. Although, my sweet tooth was acting up. We finished our tea, paid and left.

  On our way home we walked the damp sidewalk hand and hand. My sweet tooth still beckoned between loving murmurs. Outside the dollar store, I spied a wrapper on the ground. My heart was a flutter, yet my brain denied that I was seeing what I was seeing. Yet it allowed me to start processing a plan for an impromptu trip into the dollar store to purchase what came in said wrapper.

  What was it? Well for those of you who don’t like to read titles. It was a Hostess peach pie. One of my favorite treats as a child and as it just so happened, that for the past few days, I had been craving a fruit pie. No, not one of those things your grandma made. Not some circular tart that you, if you have self control, cut into wedges and eat off of a plate. I mean those things that you buy at 7-11 or for the rural folk, the gas station. They are kind of shaped like tacos, but are tightly fluted shut for lack of a better term. Their crust is dry and crumbly. The fruit was harvested back when Germany was one country, the first time and jam packed full of so much sugar that it will still taste fresh for years to come. As long as your definition of fresh is the coagulated syrupy sugar of a thousand soft drinks.

  They also don’t seem to exist. Sure maybe the cherry and apple are able to be found and other brand names at that. But the peach pie is a rare delicacy in this day and age of frowning upon gluten, trans fat, monosodium glutamate and everything else that makes eating wonderful.

 I have read, on the internet, that Hostess peach pies “are the best thing I have ever tasted,” and that “they are the closest thing to lambdas bread we have in our world.” To that I say, why aren’t elves fatter. Why aren’t there a bunch of fat fuck wood elves huffin and puffin in the forest, ripping their green tights and snapping tree branches?

  Anyway, it wasn’t a peach pie wrapper. I don’t know what it was. Once I was actually close enough to read, there were tears of disappointment filling my eyes and the pains of a breaking heart in my chest. Which is actually better than the chest pains I would have eventually gotten from the pie.

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