Butterfinger Blues
In an uncharacteristic move for me, I walked past the local vending machine and decided to treat my sweet tooth. I was really in the mood for a Kit-Kat, but that was the one confection lacking. How come they stock machines with awful snacks like vinegar and onion potato chips but they can't throw a Kit-Kat behind the glass? Anyway, I opted for a Butterfinger. It's been about a year since I last ingested a Butterfinger, and I didn't remember the experience being all that fulfilling, but I figured my tastes may have refined over the last 365 days. After all, we're talking about Bart Simpson's candy of choice. It's the "crispety, crunchety, peanut-buttery bar," for crying out loud. It has to be good. Just for the record, "crispety" and "crunchety" aren't actually words. For that matter, I'm not sure "peanut-buttery" is a word either, but I'm giving the good folks at Butterfinger the benefit of the doubt. I was okay with the first bite, mainly because it assuaged the sugar craving that prompted me to purchase the bar in the first place. The second bite, on the other hand, was immediately tiresome. Butterfingers cling to teeth the way barnacles cling to whales. Plus, the texture reminds me of layers of limestone, hardened sheets of brittle peanut butter stacked atop one another and encased in a chocolate sock. Bart Simpson or no, this candy sucks. Damn I wanted a Kit-Kat. *sigh*
Stumble It!
