Texas Pork Puffs?
Texas Pork Puffs!
Before we can speak intelligently about this product, we must exorcise the name from our minds.
Be gone, Texas Pork Puffs!
Just as a remedy for an annoying song stuck in the brain can be the substitution of a different song, perhaps—please!—we can force Texas Pork Puffs out by inserting an equally offensive name.
At this point—after being awake for 34 straight hours—we'll try anything!
Here goes nothing:
Toxic Lamb Squirts™Damn! Texas Pork Puffs won't. Go. Away.
Chocolate-Covered Piglet Parts™
I Can't Believe It's Not Tripe!™
Mucus in a Tube™
Pillowcase Full of Hair and Band-Aids™
Honey Bunches of Gristle™
We continue this write-up under extreme duress.
First, it must be said that "cowboy" is the third-most flaccid rebel in the suicidefood canon, behind "rocker" and "biker." The prairie's rugged individualist, cowpoke, cowpuncher, the cowboy is always envisioned as a lone wolf, a man's man. Along with his prototypically rebellious companions, the cowboy is the perfect vehicle for suicidefoodism's putrid dominance. If the priests of suicidefoodism can tame these unbreakable stallions, who will dare defy them?
But look at this pig, with his little boots and his precious red vest! He's a company pig, bought and paid for. Chaps-wearing rebel? Bah! He prances around, eagerly shilling for the abominably named Cinnamunch cinnamon-flavored pork rinds. If any real cowboy faced an opponent who wanted to "puff" his and his people's skin and dust it with cinnamon sugar, the cowboy would plug that four-flusher fulla holes courtesy of his faithful shootin' iron.
But not the Cinnamunch Kid. No sir! This tinhorn just smiles and does pretty lasso tricks.
Addendum: Please, dear readers, suggest more loathsome product names, so we can get T.P.P.'s out.