Twix

Eating a Twix bar and picturing the person who runs the whole Twix empire—the head honcho, the big cheese, some Harvard MBA turned global manufacturing overlord—whose entire professional identity is Twix. Not candy, not chocolate, not “snacking occasions.” Twix.

He’s a Fearless Business Tycoon. The kind of guy who wears suits that suggest he’s “presented at Davos” on a panel called something like Sustainable Delight: Unlocking Resilience in Treat-Based Ecosystems. The kind of guy who signs emails with the phrase Let’s drive joy at scale. The kind of guy who believes—genuinely, fervently—that Twix is a platform. For what, exactly, is unclear. Possibly caramel.

The kind of guy who doesn’t clock out when he gets home, who lectures his family at Thanksgiving about how “Twix’s optimized mouthfeel-to-mass ratio is a legitimate moat in the post-fun-size economy,” while their eyes glaze over and they pretend to listen. But tonight, his brother-in-law, with a liberal arts degree in feminist algebra, is feeling bold: “It's candy, Dave. It's just stupid candy and it’s making people fat. How about we talk about that?” Dave feels his blood pressure rise and takes a breath to maintain his composure. “Well, actually…in terms of confectionary singles, Twix is in a league of its own. And no, it’s not just ‘stupid candy making people fat.’ Twix is a platform. It’s a brand experience. But you wouldn’t understand that, with your PhD in feminist algebra, whatever the fuck that means. None of you freeloading fsggots would ever understand what perfection demands, because all you do is scroll on social media, thumbs maniacally stroking screen, gooning to commie vore or whatever cocomelon bullshit manages to capture your goldfish attention span, bitching about how your government issued DEI sex robot didn’t microwave your macaroni and cheese to precisely 98.6 degrees, meanwhile you have no idea that the Paladin autonomous gun could turn this entire shithole into a smoking crater faster than you can say ‘diabetes.’ And you have the audacity, the TEMERITY, to blame ME and MY TWIX for your shitty lives, on thanksgiving of all days.” Dave downs a bottle of Everclear, grabs his keys, and peels out of the driveway, tires screeching, hitting the mailbox before zooming off into the night. He stumbles into a 7/11, loitering around in a drunken stupor, Everclear bottle in hand, pants around his ankles, urinating on a chip display, screaming, TAKE THAT, YOU CORPORATE CUNTS! Clerk calls the cops, and when they show up, Dave bolts out of there, dick flapping like a windsock in a hurricane yelling, FUCK YOU, YOU FASCIST FAGGOTS! at the cops. They tackle him to the ground and slap every charge from indecent exposure to resisting arrest to being a total fucking asshole on his rap sheet. This is precisely why Galileo was imprisoned and Socrates poisoned, Dave thinks to himself from the back of the cop car. Mugshot hits the front page of his local newspaper, followed by the ultimate betrayal by Twix HQ: they call him into the office, put all his little office supplies in a banker’s box, deactivate his ID badge, and force him to walk the plank out of the building, forever, while his former “friends and colleagues” all avoid eye contact. And now he’s just some crazy hobo jerking off into a dumpster behind the Twix factory, not out of baseless desire but as philosophical performance art, muttering about snap-cohesion ratios while rats nibble at his toes.

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