The Twisted Legacy of Granny B.

I wake up, it's Tuesday I think. I oblige my hunger as it beckons me upstairs into the kitchen, my bare feet tread gingerly upon the chilled tile floor. I look in the refrigerator and find nothing to eat. I begin to turn to the cabinet, although my gaze stops on a big pink box on the counter, nestled up between the refrigerator and the toaster.

"What is this?"

I read the label, "Granny B's Cookies." Oh no. I'm not even sure they even sell these outside of Utah. I try and recollect when I last had one, and find I can't. My mouth starts salivating, and I edge closer to the box to better see the delicious cookies contained within. For those unfamiliar with the Granny B Pink Sugar Cookie, let me elaborate; the Pink Sugar Cookie is essentially a disc of bleached white flour smothered in a half inch of pink frosting, topped with sprinkles. It looks like this. There are many hack versions of the cookie, although all of them are tough and crumbly by comparison. With some sort of black magic, the guys who designed the Granny B cookie managed to lock in the softness of the frosting and cookie, keeping them fresh and succulent for weeks on end. One would think such a simple little thing would be relatively innocuous, save for the frightening amount of sugar contained therein, although one look at the back of a package dispels that assumption instantly.

At first glance the figures seem harmless: 133 calories, 4 milligrams of cholesterol, 9 grams of sugar, etc. That is, of course, until you read that one cookie comprises four servings, then the figures seem a lot more daunting. Oh, but my primal urge to partake of the deliciousness contained within wrestles with my reason. The fact that this white and pink hockey puck spells certain carotid death is of no object, all I can think of is ripping away the packaging and delicately sinking my teeth into Granny B's awful creation; first into the rosy, undulating waves of frosting, and then into the sweet, soft cookie itself.

I consider the package for a moment. The label on the clear plastic barely covers the culinary pornography within. The design is reminiscent of a handkerchief my own grandma would have, and therein lies the trap. Even though this was coldly mass produced in a factory somewhere in the wastelands of Northern Utah, it is marketed to seem cozy, inviting, familiar; almost like partaking of your grandmother's cooking when visiting during a holiday. I've never seen doublethink implemented with such success. Not only has Granny B produced something that is completely hazardous to your health, but she's made it seem friendly and warm, of your own blood. She's sugarcoated a serpent.

I look at the picture of Granny B on the box. The same picture is featured on the company's website. Her hair is short, the bangs curled. Her lips, slathered with burgundy lipstick, form an inviting although somewhat terrifying smile. In each hand she presents a packaged cookie, and her eyes, gazing off over her glasses, invite me in. "I baked these just for you, Andy," they say, "Oh come on, don't be shy, eat them!"

Granny B, you twisted bitch, you're not inviting me in with that smile; you're smiling because you've won. You know your creations are like cookie heroin, you grin because you've gotten away with hooking thousands of innocent, hungry people on your horrendous product. I do not buy a Pink Sugar Cookie, I sign my soul away, and in your eyes I think I can see a faint glimmer of hellfire. I should just put the thing down and have a bagel, maybe a bowl of cereal, I can't let this thing manipulate me. But...

I open the package and bite down. It is devoured in a manner of minutes, and soon after my fingers start to shake a little from the sugar. I can still feel the little human inside of me shaking his head.