I'll Give You My Junk Food When You Pry It From My Cold, Dead Hands
Bingo, betrayal, and the battle for my Bugles.
“Nobody had ever told me junk food was bad for me. Four years of medical school, and four years of internship and residency, and I never thought anything was wrong with eating sweet rolls and doughnuts, and potatoes, and bread, and sweets.”
― Dr. Robert Atkins, Inventor of “The Atkins Diet”
“Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you who you are."
― G.K Chesterton
“I was always a junk food person, still am.”
― Dolly Parton, age 79
If all goes to plan, within the next few months Robert Kennedy Jr. will be confirmed as the new Secretary of Health and Human Services.
And he has made no secret of the fact that the junk food industry in his crosshairs, having called the delicious products they produce “poison.”
Kennedy claims the science is on his side, but my evidence says otherwise.
It’s Monday night at the Blessed Sacrament bingo hall, and like all Monday nights, the room is filled with an eclectic mix of patrons.
I’m here every third Monday—my presence the price I pay for sending my kids to Catholic school: mandatory volunteering.
In reality, the “hall” is just the school gym, outfitted with rows of plastic tables and chairs, but that doesn’t dampen the enthusiasm and excitement of those lining up to play games like “Firedog,” “Break the Bank,” and “Hags on Nags”—the bingosphere being immune to the cultural shifts, sensitivities, and scoldings of the #metoo movement.
One thing is sure, people are here to win, so they carry with them items intended to help line their pockets with cold hard cash.
Pictures of grandchildren top the list of lucky talismans, but not too far behind are plastic four-leaf clovers, rabbits’ feet, silver dollars, mini-horseshoes, and because this is technically a church function, religious icons.
“Twenty-six Mother of Mary, TWENTY-SIX!”
The variety of people in the room is fascinating.
Twenty-somethings mix effortlessly with senior citizens who have no reason to suspect that the nice young man across the table from them is an ex-gang banger.
Nor do they realize that the sweet-looking girl to their left is a recovering meth addict attending the night’s festivities only due to a severe suggestion from her parole officer.
For these folks attempting to walk a tightrope back into regular life, idle hands are indeed the devil’s playground. But their hands will not be idle tonight, and no devils will dare to invade this sanctified setting.
Just as varied as the people are the snacks and treats the elderly bingoists choose to ingest.
Month after month, I watch in horror as bag upon bag of dirty, salty, sweet—and often flaming—chips, crisps, and candies spill forth from their backpacks and macramé’ shoulder sacks.
And it makes me question all the things my parents told me about junk food.
That it was bad for me.
That if I ate too much of it, my teeth would fall out.
That I would get morbidly fat.
That at some point, my arterial veins would be so blocked up with plaque that my heart would explode out of my chest, knocking anyone in its path into unconsciousness.
Yet these folks, these bingo loving Baby Boomers, from the drop of the first numbered ball to the last payout of the night, shove some of the most heinous crap I’ve ever seen down their gullets—without even blinking an eye.
I’m talking about the hard stuff.
They don’t just do Funyuns; they do Chile Limon flavored Funyuns.
Doritos? Get the fuck outta here! They’re mainlining Nachos Pisco Habanero Rolled Doritos, bitch!
If it ain’t Ranch Dipped, Flamin’ Hot, Smoked, or Bold, they don’t want to know about it.
Even that most American of snacks, Cracker Jacks, has been mutated into perverted and extreme derivations.
Cracker Jacks — no, sorry, Cracker Jack’D, with a capital “D” — now come in Cheddar BBQ, Zesty Queso, Spicy Pizzeria, and Buffalo Ranch flavors.
OH…THE…HUMANITY!!!
Let’s just admit it. Satan has already won.
It makes you wonder how many parents and grandparents of Gen X’ers like me are gathering at bingo halls, craft fairs, and so-called 'wine tasting events' just to secretly binge on this crap.
What’s strange is that, even though I’d like to think I’m still hip and with it—despite using terms like hip and with it—I don’t recognize any of the stuff these folks are pounding down in what can only be described as a Snackpocalypse.
Except for one.
A devious, malevolent little gateway snack from my youth that has since evolved into an Achilles heel: a perfectly engineered weapon of salty seduction known as Bugles.
According to the General Mills snack blog — yes, you read that right, General Mills has a snack blog —Bugles was the first cone-shaped corn snack.
God, we’re innovators.
Its origins pre-date the cell phone, personal computers, and even man’s landing on the moon. From the blog:
Fifty years ago, Bugles was actually among a trio of new General Mills snacks that represented our entry into the snack food market. And we’ve never looked back, as our snack portfolio has since grown wider and more diverse.
Back then, Bugles’ snack siblings were Whistles – a cheddar-flavored corn product in the shape of a whistle and “taste like grilled cheese on toast, only crunchy”; and Daisy*s – a flower-shaped snack that had the flavor of “puffed popovers.”
While Whistles and Daisy*s went by the wayside within just a few years, Bugles outlasted them and many other snacks that General Mills introduced.
Fortunately, as with all cutting-edge innovations, technology drove the evolution of Bugles onward and upward over the ensuing years.
And today, you no longer need to be content with putting pedestrian-style salted corn-flavored cones on your fingertips, because now you can put Chile con Queso, Salt & Vinegar, Chocolate Peanut Butter, Sweet & Salty Caramel, and even Crazed Southwest Ranch Style Bugles on your digits.
Yes, you heard me right. Not regular Ranch, but CRAZED SOUTHWEST RANCH!
That’s crazy!
God only knows what style of Whistles and Daisy*s we would be enjoying right now had they survived?
It’s hard to accept that everything you’ve been taught, every ounce of belief you held sacred is just a pack of salty-sweet lies, perpetrated upon you by those you trusted most.
But the proof is right there in front of me every third Monday.
Debbie and Paul Salazar quaff Yoo-hoo and crunchy Spiced Cheez-Its in between games. They’re both 72 and look like they could easily go another twenty years.
Gwen Sorenson is 81 and spends all night gobbling up handfuls of the frustum-shaped chocolatey goodness that are Rolos.
You might think her mother—who sits right next to her—would disapprove, but Greta Sorenson, at age 101, is too busy eating Bourbon BBQ-flavored Pringles and washing them down with Baja Blast Mountain Dew to notice.
Then there’s Paul, who’s 97 years old, and took part in the first landing force on D-Day. He takes down 64-ounce Big Gulps and bags of Oreos with the same ruthless efficiency he used when storming Omaha Beach, destroying cupcakes along the way like they’re Nazi pillboxes.
Well, if it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me, Bobby!
So back off the Beer Battered Onion Ring Ruffles. Stay away from the Rockstar Punched Hardcore Apple drinks. Keep your grimy government paws off the Peppermint Moonberry Twinkies.
And let me enjoy my Cinnamon Toasted Crunch Bugles in peace.
The average person can read 250 words per minute.
If you made it this far, you took a ten minute break from an increasingly chaotic and unhinged world.
Come back here next week and we’ll do it again—or stay on break and check out The Best of ‘The Anecdote.’
I am so old, I remember when they were introduced.