The Wonderful World of TWIZZLERS™!

It is no easy life being a sex-shop worker-cum-student, such as I. On a daily basis I am assailed with such traumatic decisions as: “which antibacterial spray would be best suited to this G-spot vibrator?” and “how can I avoid paying for train tickets to uni without being caught yet again by the haggard banshees at Transperth?” When faced with such problems, my [friends] would tell you that I usually respond with Audrey Hepburn-esque dignity and thoughtfulness. However, there come times in everyone’s lives when too many of these challenges arise at once and, no matter how gosh-darned fabulous you are, it is necessary to turn to some sort of chemical for help.

Johnny Cash is smoking. He is also awesome. Do the figures.

Some turn to alcohol, as it is readily available and relatively inexpensive. Indeed, if you are an employee at a bar supplies are not only endless but totally free, especially if you are willing to engage in some light thievery. Some turn to cigarettes, presumably because awesome people like Johnny Cash and Jarvis Cocker smoke[d] them, and pretending to be someone much better than one’s self is a good way of solving life-problems. Just look at Wolfmother, they’ve been pretending to be Led Zepplin for so long they must have convinced themselves they’re okay by now! Others, who are far more street-wise than myself, turn to illicit drugs, such as heroin, marijuana, crack, ice, etc. (Please let me assure you I only know these names because I Wikipedia-ed “illicit drugs” two minutes ago.) Have you ever noticed that most street names for drugs can be both a verb and a noun? Crack, ice, weed, pot, speed and so on. One could feasibly be “icing a cake made of ice while on ice”. Actually, I’m not sure if ice users would be capable of making or icing a cake, as I don’t even know what ice is, but you get my drift.

My point is that everyone has their vice, their sneaky little friend they turn to in moments of dire stress who sits them down, rubs their shoulders and whispers “come on, love, it’s going to be ok. Do you know why? Because you’re fucking God, that’s why.” Mine is none of those aforementioned. Indeed, until my housemate’s boyfriend flew in from Canada two days ago, I didn’t even have access to them. Now, though, I have a sturdy supply of my own little vice, my pick-me-up, my sycophantic little cheerleader – Twizzlers.

For those unlucky enough to have never seen/consumed/heard of Twizzlers, here is a brief sketch:

Twizzlers are a confection from the US and Canada, and are distinguishable by their distinctive shape, texture, taste and the fact that they are in no way actual food. This is what I love about them. Twizzlers are unashamedly unnatural. Out of their 15 ingredients, 9 are preservatives, the rest being “artificial flavour”, sugar, salt, corn syrup, colour and mineral oil. What a veritable smorgasbord of oral delights! This is not to mention the colours, which would be enough to throw any toddler into spasms of delight.

The only way Twizzlers identify with actual food is with the variety of luminous cartoon fruits on the packets, and the assurance that no Twizzler will ever contain any traces of peanuts. I’m surprised someone felt that there was a need for this warning, as it’s clear that no Twizzler will ever contain a trace of a nut, or indeed anything that isn’t a petroleum by-product.

It should come as no surprise, then, that Twizzlers taste like absolute shit. Eating a Twizzler is like chewing one’s way through an electronic cable that has been covered in air-freshener. The yellow ones (“Lemonade” flavour) are highly reminiscent of lemon dishwashing detergent, while my favourite, “Grape”, tastes like nothing on this whole earth should ever taste, least of all a grape.

The true joy of Twizzlers lies most solidly in this escape from reality. In the World of Twizzlers, anything is possible! It’s okay to eat something which could be used to insulate boats, or to crave the flavour equivalent of your household cleaning products. The only demands Twizzlers make of you is that you “enjoy the fun!” (and rather bizarrely that you “make sure you read the label every time”. I’m not sure what this is all about, maybe Twizzler is worried you would forget to enjoy the fun? Not going to happen!)

So there you are: my vice. And next time I am overwhelmed by the stifling quagmire of my existence, you can be assured that I will turn to you, Twizzlers. I will enjoy the fun, I will question the fact that Twizzlers have been around since 1929, I will revel in the bright colours, and I will relax. After all, “Twizzlers make mouths happy!”

(For anyone great enough to want more info on Twizzlers and their various uses, please refer to: The Twizzlers Website! Robert from Ohio uses his Twizzlers to make bracelets for his girlfriends. He has girlfriends. Think on that for a bit.)