Eureka! - Little Debbie has Real Fig Newtons

At last I have found my holy grail - a Fig Newton that tastes like a Fig Newton used to taste before the food po-lice went on their unholy rampage.

We were walking through Publix when I glanced over at the Little Debbie endcap and there it was - "Little Debbie has a snack for you - Fig Bars (who needs a newton). And then the most beautiful words in a Fig Newton fanatics vocabulary - Original Recipe!

Could it be my quest was over? I approached cautiously for fear it was just a figment of my demented personality. I wanted to believe, but after so many psuedo newtons I just couldn't. I have become a fig newton cynic. After all, who could reach back into space and time and bring the past to life. Impossible.

But there it was - $1.79 for eight individually wrapped bars (net weight 12 Oz).

I was mesmerized. My wife finally slapped me (I'm sure she enjoyed it) snapping me from my trance. I quickly placed four boxes in the cart and my wife crossed her arms and I replaced three.

I could hardly wait until we reached the rear hatch of our Subaru to rip open the box and shove an entire bar into my mouth. I was so ravenous for the taste of an original fig newton that I didn't taste the first one. I had to clear my palate and open another and yes, it had the original newton flavor.

We ate the entire box on the spot. I retrieved all Publix had on the shelf, emptying our bank account, and we had an orgy of fig bars.

Dark Comedy strongly reccommends Little Debbie's Fig Bars. They are a delight. I believe this one move by Little Debbie has broken the back of our American Malaise. The stock market and property values will come back (it will take time of course)as America's transfat deficiency is broken. Americans can now debunk their funk and go back to living the good life. Long live the Fig Bar!

In recognition of their accomplishment I'm bringing back my fig bar elegy - The Trans-Fatty Two-Step.

For musician Henry Threadgill in appreciation of his energy and inspiration

Trans-Fatty Two-Step

It all started deep in the bowels of the Fig Newton factory. There among the complex equipment and laboratories worked an anonymous man, Mortimer Hitchcock. His job was to run one machine – the gas chromatograph. He toiled over the mass of glass tubing twelve hours a day, six days a week. Keeping it cleaned. Calibrated. Waiting for his opportunity.

Mortimer wore thick, round glasses that magnified his eyes and made him look a little like an intelligent English Garden vole.

After watching his favorite movie, On the Beach, for the 93rd time, he even named his machine. Matilda. He loved Matilda. Over time he endowed his gas chromatograph with human emotions and features. And any psychologist can tell you that technomorphism is a serious sign of the decay of mental hygiene.

It was not surprising Hitchcock had a little brain slippage as he had so little human contact. Mortimer always arrived at his small, isolated laboratory long before the other scientists. His olive-drab Neon was the last car to leave the parking lot. In fact most of the other employees thought his crumbling seven-year-old Neon must belong to a security guard as it seemed a permanent fixture of parking spot 438. Why always spot 438? It was Mortimer’s lucky number and he was adept at mathematical calculations. Numbers were so clean. The whole numbers had an integrity that stimulated Mortimer’s testicular tissues and raised his testosterone levels. In fact, with his work schedule, it was fortunate for Mortimer that he got off on whole numbers.

Even though some people might think M.E. Hitchcock had it made, there was frustration in his 84-hour workweek. Deep inside, Mortimer was an ambitious man.

Then one day, a routing tech stumbled into Mortimer Hitchcock’s lab carrying the vial that would change the world and Mortimer’s life forever. He signed the routing slip realizing he had worked for Fig Newton International for exactly 4,380 days. An auspicious number he shared with Matilda as he loaded the sample and caressed her beautiful bell-shaped glass ports.

Unfortunately what Mortimer had forgotten in his titillated state was that the gas chromatograph will accommodate fatty liquids, but only if they are first mixed with a specific quantity of New Dawn liquid detergent. And I suppose with Mortimer’s technomorphism raging he would have given anything to slip something into Matilda’s port.

So it came to pass that with double checks of every step and calibration and retesting, Mortimer completed his examination by 2:00 A.M. He couldn’t wait to look in his latest Chromatograph text to use the data in the complex mathematical tables. And when he refined his result and looked in the Manual of Garcia (or Garcia’s Guide as it’s known today) he was stunned by the result. Stunned and afraid he had discovered a terrible flaw in the Fig Newton. A flaw that could, in time, be fatal to the chronic consumer of Fig Newton’s. And even though Hitchcock was a scientist without any political affiliation, who had lost touch with reality in all its various forms and manifestations, he knew enough to understand his finding could prove disastrous to Fig Newton International (FNI). And a glorious field day for the legion of locusts that were the International Class Action Attorney’s Association (the ICAAA as you have already guessed has its headquarters in Canada).

Unable to bear the thought, he went back to the specimen and repeated the entire procedure. You see even though Mortimer Hitchcock was in love with Matilda, he had a serious Newton fixation as he felt compelled to support his company’s cookie. And by the twenty-third hour of his day, he was absolutely, positively sure he’d discovered a time bomb ticking in the soul of his favorite cookie – transfat.

And so Mortimer went to find the man who eleven-years before had last given him an employee evaluation. The man he assumed was still his immediate superior. He went into the administrative complex only to discover that his former boss was now a first vice president with an office next to that of the CEO. Not knowing exactly how to proceed he rode the only elevator, an express, to the 43rd floor.

And it happened, at that moment, the first vice president was waiting for the elevator and M.E. Hitchcock called out to him by name. The vice president didn’t recognize Mortimer, but he could see the distress in his eyes and he could read the "M.E. Hitchcock" on his nametag. Being a kind man and highly intuitive as unknown to him one of his testicles was in fact a functioning ovary, and the elevator was empty, he had Mr. Hitchcock share the ride down to the lobby. Mortimer, even though feeling aroused, understood as the floors whipped past in increments of whole numbers that the express would spill them into the lobby far too soon. So Hitchcock reached out, as any good technomorph would, and gently caressed the stop button. The elevator came to an immediate stop disorienting the vice president and before he could say, "What’s the meaning of this," Mortimer blurted it right out.

The first vice president was stunned by the news. You could have knocked him over with a Twinkie. But he was an excellent poker player and he immediately called Hitchcock’s bluff, "Show me."

Mortimer walked him across the street and down into the maze that was the R+D center. During the entire fifteen minutes they walked Mortimer never made a sound. The first vice president found Hitchcock’s ability to navigate unerringly through the maze reassuring. It enhanced his confidence that this awkward man knew what he was doing. Before they even reached the lab, the first vice president intuited that Hitchcock was telling him the truth.

The first vice president was overwhelmed by the gas chromatograph and the magnificent bell- shaped glass ports Mortimer caressed the entire time he was explaining the machinery. Mortimer proudly displayed his results and the acres of figures in Garcia’s Guide.

This meeting led to a secret report entitled, ‘It’s the Transfatty Acids, Stupid.’ Mortimer Hitchcock presented his report to the CEO of FNI in his office three days later causing great alarm and consternation on the 43rd floor.

Eventually Mortimer’s report led to a change in the formulation of the Fig Newton. And the CEO was proud there was no longer even a teensy, tiny amount of transfatty acid to besmirch their cookie.

Unfortunately what they didn’t count on and what consumers soon learned was the once-delectable Fig Newton, without TFA, now had the flavor of gritty fig preserve held together by two layers of cardboard.

And when sales of the pride of FNI dropped dramatically for the third quarter, there was panic in the accounting department. The following week information was leaked to the ICAAA that all the other cookies on the market still contained dangerous levels of the-now-dreaded transfat.

His report brought Mortimer Hitchcock the fame and fortune he craved. He got a promotion to become the head of quality control for FNI and a lucrative book deal for the story of TFA. He went on the Conan O’Brien show where thousands of women were drawn to his feral-English-Garden-vole good looks and his devilish sense of humor, which was in reality just incredibly poor timing. Oprah had to have him in the worst way (which we won’t be discussing) and have him on her show, where she called him a knight of nutrition and a friend of cookie lovers everywhere.

Unfortunately his discovery was not good for Mortimer Hitchcock’s peace of mind. But that did not mean he didn’t dream of far more glamorous machines and the magazine he wanted to start for technomorphs. But it was not to be, as one night while he dreamed that Matilda carried his unborn child, he woke in a sweat with the realization he had forgotten to use New Dawn liquid detergent to dilute the fatty liquid. He immediately hopped into his fire-engine red Ferrari and raced to parking place 438. He opened the doors of his former gas chromatograpy lab only to find it had fallen into disrepair and in a fever, he worked to reclaim Matilda for his own. He vowed never to desert her again for other more beguiling machines.

And the next morning when he pulled that fateful specimen from the freezer there was just enough liquid for one more test. He worked until Matilda’s tubing gleamed and her calibration was perfect. Only then did he reach for the specimen now thawed and awaiting him in his favorite test-tube rack. He understood as he fondled Matilda’s ports that there were bigger ports, but there were no more beautiful ports than Matilda’s. Because as even the most jaded technomorph will tell you, when it comes to ports, more than a mouthful is wasted.

When the results were in, he told Matilda he’d be back. He’d have his retribution on her current lab technician. And he would be sure to humiliate the tech in her presence and then he would fire his ass as he didn’t think he would be allowed to cut him deep.

He raced to his office where all the latest texts were displayed proudly in his magnificent library. It made him light-headed and weak at the knees to even enter this sanctuary. But there in black and white in Garcia’s Guide was the truth: Transfat was not the culprit.

Mortimer Hitchcock developed a second super-secret report within three days incriminating this new fat and there on the bottom of page 43 was a teensy, tiny footnote letting TFA off the hook. This report he presented to the CEO and the first vice president. But, as in the case with most things in the world today, once the lawyers and accountants had decided, it was too late to change. And as you well know, cookiephiles were left with a world of cookies that were barely edible.

The good news was ironic. Heart disease went down because eating fewer cookies meant you consumed far less of the other fatty acid that did cause heart disease. Just showing the world is indeed a strange and disturbing place.

And what of our knight of nutrition? Mortimer Hitchcock, with all his faults and idiosyncrasies was not a stupid man. He knew the truth and he was able to corner the market on TFA.

As income from cookie sales slid further into the dumpster, the sales and marketing department of FNI became more frantic to move cookies. So Mortimer slipped copies of his latest report to the managers of both departments. They of course knew from vast experience with the American consumer if they waited just eighteen months the fascination with deadly TFA would naturally wain. And so they started buying boxcars of TFA at prices that unknown to them were set directly by, you guessed it, Mortimer Hitchcock.

And the moral of the story: it’s not what happens that matters; it’s how you react to it. And of course Henry Threadgill and I hope there will be a retro-movement toward more flavorful Fig Newtons.