Just How Little Are You, Debbie?

I love snacks, and let no man, woman, child, or bovine convince you otherwise. What I especially like are Little Debbie products, namely Swiss Cake Rolls. Granted, one could make the (plausible) argument that Star Crunch® Cosmic™ Snacks played a greater role in shaping my current, charming personality than Swiss Rolls ever did, but that notwithstanding, the Swiss sure know how to make some good fucking rolls.

During high school, my daily lunch consisted of the following: a bottle of Surge*, mystery meat atop a slice of white bread all smothered in brown gravy (the cafeteria food was surprisingly good, even if it was, unsurprisingly, a perplexing endeavor to determine the animal from which the meat originated), and a pack of Swiss Cake Rolls.

I always wondered why we, the customers, were never given a glimpse of Debbie beyond the mug shot strategically placed upon each and every wrapper. Was she hot? No, if only because that happens to be the dumbest goddamn query possible amongst mankind, and inching toward idealjetsam levels of creepiness to boot. Was she fit?** That's what I really wanted to know, as one so addled by sugar and high-fructose corn syrup is apt to entertain such ridiculous conjecture.

At the time, my supposition was that Debbie must have been quite the little porker, and that she was rolling a whole lot of money into her Swiss bank account, courtesy of chumps like me. Lest you judge me too harshly, diluted reader, keep in mind that Debbie Reynolds is, in fact, a living person and not the fantasy of some advertising agency gone awry.

I miss high school.


Iced Honey Bun

* Separate post, bitches!

** That's the second dumbest question amongst mankind, followed by Why doesn't she update that hat?