Land of the cookie monsters

Near the end of every winter, a large organization of friendly, pre-adolescent neo-subversives sends waves of its agents into our cities, towns, burbs and burgs. These agents have a secret mission, one they execute with skill and precision. None of them would ever admit it, but that mission is a simple one: to keep America rotund.

You may think you’re safe, all smug in the cozy snootiness of your gated community, but the chances are very good that your home security has already been breached. Skeptical? Well, take a look around your kitchen. See any brightly colored boxes lying around? Green, orange, maybe yellow? Ah ha! Yes, those boxes, in that nice little stack on the counter. See? You, too, are another victim of the Girl Scouts.

So what’s your weak spot? Your cookie Achilles’ heel? Peanut Butter Patties? Shortbreads? Lemon Pastry Cremes? No matter; that terrific new Hollywood Diet just went down the dumper. My weak spot is the most popular weak spot of all, one that’s been brazenly exploited for millions—make that ZILLIONS—by these crafty little missies for many years.

You know the weak spot to which I refer. You can see it right now; imagine it in your mind’s eye; imagine it in your mind’s mouth as you mentally pulverize it and compact it into your molars. There is no finer molar-filler in the universe. You can practically taste it even before I type its name, the very sight of which could well trigger a sloshing fury from your salivary glands that could fill your ravenous maw with a foaming slick of anticipation. Yes, my weak spot, America’s great weak spot, is the simple, perfect Thin Mint.

I had a column of them right here just a minute ago. An exquisite column of minty magnificence from a new two-column box. The nutrition info panel says four cookies equal one serving. Hah. Wonder what fruitarian robot came up with that stat. Every Thin Mint lover knows the true size of one serving: one column. Anything less qualifies as puritanical self-torture that reveals a truly disturbed level of self-loathing.

Once I ate a half-column, then put the remaining half back in the box, to be consumed the next day. It was a good plan—for about 30 seconds. Then, I realized, with total consciousness, that it was a very bad plan. I was back on that poor box like a black bear going after a sack of pork chops.

Now, I can’t find this new stack o’ thins. Did it drop on the floor? No. Uh-oh. A crumpled, waxy, cellophane-type product, exactly the kind of stuff that encloses the precious Thins, wadded up and thrown on the carpet. Could it be? I rush to the mirror to look for the telltale sign. There it is. Incredible. A small, moist, chocolaty dark spot, clearly visible, collected in each corner of my mouth. I have to accept that the unthinkable has again occurred: another episode of a Thin Mint Blackout.