Catacosmesis (kat-a-kos-mees’-is): Ordering words from greatest to least in dignity, or in correct order of time.
My life is a giant ingot of lead—heavy to bed, heavy to rise. I’m unhealthy, unwealthy, and unwise.
It’s all about Little Debbie.
I stuff my face night and day and day and night, with her sumptuous goodies. Raspberry nougat blueberry swirl fingers are my own true love. I lick my fingers and go back for more.
Coconut pecan fudgies are mana from heaven. I eat two per day.
Bubblegum-flavored cupcakes topped with licorice twists turn me into a feral version of myself. I snoffle loudly as I stuff two or three in my face at a tme. Mmmmm,
Marshmallow Saskatoon-berry tarts are the end of the rainbow. I flip them like coins into my mouth and consume a minimum of ten per sitting. Yummm.
Then, there’s chocolate peppermint garlic pepperoni pies. They are bite-sized and they shine in the sunlight bathing my kitchen counter. I put them in the microwave for 30 seconds and their luscious smell fills house. As I eat them I blow into a paper bag to reap the full measure of their Italiano-ethos. I put vowels on the ends of words for at least an hour after I’ve eaten them. Itsa’ gooda’ stuff!
The most insane Little Debbie snack food is chocolate-dipped masago—a kind of salmon egg sushi. It proves the saying “Everything goes with chocolate.” I pour them in a cereal bowl, and sprinkle on a little salt, add a cup of whipping cream, and go to town. The little balls pop in my mouth mixing their fishy flavor with their Peruvian dark chocolate coating. Oishii! Wow!
Some people say that Little Debby is an extraterrestrial, landed in the Catskills in the 1930s I am a proponent of this theory. I believe she is still alive and continues to churn out her “cosmic” snacks somewhere in the mountains. She has disguised herself as an adolescent to throw the scent off of her ancient outer-space origins.
Some people say it was she who yelled “Let them eat cake” at starving French peasants back in the 18th century. We’ll never know.
I don’t care where she comes from, or how old she is. Today, tomorrow, and forever, she’ll be my “Little Debbie”—the most creative purveyor of unhealthy snack foods in the cosmos and my main course on the way to cardiac arrest.
Mon amour!
