Hal­loween kisses must die

The Coast - - FRONT PAGE - —Stephanie Johns

It’s rare that you run across a “candy” so vile it has a dis­gust­ing ur­ban myth re­gard­ing its ori­gin. Hal­loween Kisses are ex­actly that candy. The party line was that at the end of Hal­loween candy sea­son, the ex­cess bags of Hal­loween Kisses would get shipped back to the man­u­fac­turer, where they’d be tossed into a giant vat, wrap­pers and all, melted down with more...tof­fee? Mo­lasses? And re­pur­posed into next year’s treats. You can pic­ture it, right? You’d never be­lieve that about mini Snick­ers. Through­out my trick or treat­ing ca­reer it would al­ways go the same way: I’d quickly sift through my bag of treats and get those wax wrapped nuggets out of my sight, fob­bing them im­me­di­ately off to my dad, who some­how liked them. Es­pe­cially con­fus­ing be­cause, to my knowl­edge, my dad would never sip the brown liquor from a spit­toon filled with dis­carded chaw—Hal­loween Kisses’ clos­est flavour pro­file. I guess there’s some ap­peal in root­ing for the un­der­dog— waste not, want not, I get it—but even I have a greater re­spect for my taste­buds than that, and this is com­ing from some­one who reg­u­larly eats mi­crowave­able No Name bur­ri­tos.

JESS HARTJES

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