There are many things which I am fully willing to admit that
have been lost to our culture’s current obsession with technological progress.
Reading, taking walks, honest to goodness conversations. All have suffered in
our ever-pressing quest for the new, the better, and the best. Many things have
been lost that should not have been lost; things forgotten that should be
recalled. Yet at the same time, I am no luddite. Our technological advances
have afforded us a multitude of comforts and luxuries. With all of our progress
and ingenuity I am baffled at the continued existence of one particular
product: the Butterscotch disc.
How is it that in 2016, with the array of absurd and
wonderful confections we have access to, that some people are still consuming
this hideous and outdated sugar sphere? Surely we have progressed enough that
our taste buds demand more.
According to Wikipedia, the butterscotch disc was invented
in the 1850’s. You know what else was invented in the 1850’s? The calliope.
Also, the hand egg beater and the equatorial sextant. How many of those do we
use on a every-day basis? Why then are we still consuming this faux toffee.
Now some of you might find this particular rabbit trail
obscure. Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps there is still life in those humble
amber discs. Perhaps. Or perhaps there is something more sinister lurking in
the nether regions of that glass candy bowl sitting on the coffee table at your
grandma’s house.
I may, however, be tainted in my distain for the “treat”. I
still can recall the horrifying sensation that occurred when I was yet a child.
As a youth I did not go to church regularly. Perhaps I attended on an Easter or
a Christmas service, but the only time I found myself at church was with my
grandmother who faithfully attended First Baptist Church of Ferndale. It was
here that a shadow cast it’s pale gaze over my yet immature life. As I trailed
along behind my grandmother on some errand or other, the pastor, a kindly man,
offered me a piece of candy from the bowl sitting atop his desk. Innocent
enough, huh? I did not steal the candy. I did not otherwise manipulate my way
into this reward. It was simply offered, a gift as free as the gospel which
would later change my heart. Yet this prize would not promise eternal life but,
rather, something far darker.
I reached my tender hand into the bowl and, in the vague
innocence of youth, fished out that most horrid of sweets wrapped in the sickly
yellow plastic: the butterscotch disc. I don’t remember where I popped the
candy into my mouth. It may have been the church or it may have been back at my
grandparent’s house. Yet I remember in horrific detail the sensation as the
hell-wrought confection lodged itself in my throat cutting off my supply of
life-giving oxygen. In what seemed like hours I labored to free the disc which
felt perpetually wedged in my esophagus while my grandmother rather calmly
offered suggestions. Little did she know that I wrestled a struggle for my very
life. Caught in the tendrils of the evil one I sputtered and gagged as the
candy slowly dissolved, hoping beyond hope for relief from the pain. Only but
for the grace of God did I escape to tell the tale. To this day the mere
thought of such a disgusting sweet brings to mind the horrors that this fallen
world is capable of. Perhaps, it was this connotation with my then-unregenerate
life that led me to understand the connotation and implications of sin and
death.
Heed my words friends. Do not be deceived into believing
that nostalgia somehow tempers the intentions of this malevolent bonbon. In all
our wisdom and progress we have yet to eradicate it from our penny candy jars.
Halloween approaches. Spare those that you love the indignity and risk of
consuming such a horror. I speak words of truth. Be warned, lest you too fall
prey to its evil intent.
By the way, I’m not too keen on Butterscotch pudding either.
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