Why, a deep-fried Twinkie, of course!

I ate the vile appendage while Downtown this past weekend, and I now understand why it is only 99 cents … although it is still about a dollar too expensive in my opinion.

In the back of Mermaids on Fremont Street, there is a “special” snack bar counter.

This counter serves up poisonous concoctions, not typically intended for human consumption. Such as the “deep-fried Oreo” and the “deep-fried Twinkie”.

We ordered up one of each, and after a bit of a wait for them to sink the already unhealthy substances in a vat of horrid liquid, we began tasting each product.

To be honest, I don’t even know if there was a Twinkie or Oreo in either one.

The whole thing is about 90% bread (think funnel cake type stuff), and buried inside was supposed to be the snack you chose.

The problem is, you can’t taste a Twinkie or Oreo to save your life.

All you taste is bread and sugar. They could put a dog turd in those things and I guarantee you that it would taste exactly the same. Frankly, I am not 100% sure that they didn’t put a dog turd in mine.

The people who work the counters are sometimes referred to as the “Twinkie Nazis” because much like the “Soup Nazi” on the Seinfeld show, they get extremely impatient with people who don’t order promptly and correctly. If you hem and haw, they’ll just shout “next” and take the order of the people behind you while you stand there and wonder what happened.

However, on this day, I found the staff affable enough. The two black ladies behind the counter pretty much scowled at everyone who ordered, but I managed to endear myself to the main cashier by insulting the food.

Seriously.

I told her that it looked like crap, and wondered allowed how they could serve this stuff.

The more I yapped, the more she started talking to me.

You see, fellow haters-of-life are like dog’s assholes. We can sniff out our own.

It seemed that I was speaking her language when I told her that I was holding her personally responsible for anything negative that happened to me after consuming said “food”.

I asked her if anything bad would happen to me when I ate the things, and she said with a grin “It’ll make you fat!”.

When I told her that I was fat enough, and that I should probably cancel the order, she poked me in the stomach and said “Honey, you ain’t fat, you got nuthin’ to worry about.”

See … I can make friends, and even elicit compliments from the most surly people this town can throw my way.

And you folks have the nerve to call me a misanthrope.

Fuck you all for even thinking it.

Anyway, I didn’t finish either of the dishes. They are absolutely wretched, and you might as well just dump a pound of sugar and lard down your throat, but at least I did finally taste the dreaded culinary clusterfucks, and lived to tell about it.

Save your 99 cents and lick a toilet seat, but by all means go to Mermaids for the ambiance and fine conversation.

Tell them Rex sent you.

They will give you a blank stare since I never told anyone my name … but tell them anyway.

I’m trying to get the pan-seared vomit named after me, and if you drop my name, it certainly won’t hurt my chances.

Suicidal people line up to go out in a blaze of fried glory.

Decisions, decisions.

I never thought I would ask a man if I could take a picture of his chocolate banana, but this is exactly what I asked of a fellow patron.

He probably thought I was a gay pornographer with jungle fever.

(not that there’s anything wrong with that)

Twinkie Nazi above left.

I think she’d do me.

P.S. No, we don’t rule.

When good shots of ass go bad.

Twinkie - left.  Three Oreos - right.

Before Photo.

After photo.

I had had enough.

They mean it too!

I’m surprised they put the word “Thank” at the bottom.

I’m sure the last letter was intended to be a “K”, but I guess the print shop ran out of F’s U’s and C’s.