So, uh. My name is Matt, I guess. And I’m a Shockers-addict. (deep breath) Wow, uh. Never in a million years did I think I could say those words, gosh. Oh for the visitors out there, a “shocker” is a nickel-sized candy, of the Sweet Tart family, but more chewy and much more sour. Wickedly-tasty and unfortunately for the hundreds of thousands like me, highly addictive. (cough)
When you eat one, as many of you know, taste-buds that have lied dormant in man for thousands of years suddenly spring to life – WHOOSH – 
and what follows is some kind of nucleo-chemical reaction of sorts that can only really be described as, pardon my vulgarity, an orgasmic experience. Addicts commonly refer to that initial moment the shocker hits the tongue as “sour street,” you know, “I’m taking a walk on sour street.” I’ve also heard, “Dippy Time,” and “Screwing the Jew,” the latter mostly in the midwest.
After that initial surge, the pleasure doesn’t end there. I wish it did. Next comes the chewing phase, a.k.a. ‘Chew City’ ‘Chew Chew Train’ ‘The Pancake Express’ ‘Putting on that Jew-make-up’ and the like. The more experienced shocker eater will learn to flatten the candy until it’s thinner than an amoeba cell (had to dictionary.com the shit out of that one!) and just let it sit on your tongue for over an hour until every last sugar particle dissolves. All worries and fears dissolve with it, along with (as many of us found out the hard way) any desire to take care of yourself, pay the mortage bills on time, answer the doorbell, unless of course you’re expecting the Shocker-Man to deliver his next shipment. Gosh, you know, for nine years straight, I was living from one shocker to the next. Did a lot of things I’m not proud of. Sold my entire pog collection for one pack of shockers back in ’98. Dressed up as a purple shocker three Halloweens in a row (jerry-rigged an old California Raisins costume if you’re curious). Pushed a girl down a well. Um. Dark times indeed.
But here I am, thank God. Haven’t had a shocker for, let’s see, three minutes, so I’m well on my way. But there are so many who aren’t so lucky. Who “took a left on sour street,” so to speak, and just kept on walking, down past those famous “salty dunes,” sinking deeper and deeper into the “shock-sand,” as they say, until sadly they eventually, “lost their hamster in a jew fight.” Again the latter expression coming pretty exclusively from this small town Atkinson, Nebraska. You can get a pretty delicious roast beef sub there. So here’s to those who’ve fallen! By the way, anybody got a mento?
heymattkirsch 