Consolations and distractions, stimulants and starches. It's helpful to resolve our most persistent needs into easily managed categories. Reduce and simplify, these are the keys to mental stability. The distinctions are artificial, even arbitrary. Are orgasms consolations or distractions? Always the latter, occasionally the former. Anyway it depends on when you ask. They're stimulants, so so briefly, then depressants. They're not starches, that's all we know for sure. Still, overlaying an ordering grid on this burbling mess is useful so that we don't feel like pulsating blobs of inchoate desire every single moment of every single day until we die, twitching. When I die one of my loved ones will whisper to another, "at least he's quit throbbing" to which the other will reply, "and the keening." Anyway, what I mean to say is that I'd like some of those Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets or Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes, from Philadelphia. I grew up in Maryland and we used to get those all the time. At the end of an evening watching TV I would always save one to eat during the test of the emergency broadcast system and pretend it was my last morsel of food before nuclear armageddon. All those whimsical repetitions of the letter K in their product names used to give me the creeps to be honest, but everyone knows that a tincture of dread makes snack cakes taste even better. How else to explain the enduring popularity of Little Debbie? Little Debbie's body was found "in a wooded area, frozen in an attitude of anguish and terror," according to one lurid report at the time, yet the snack foods that bear her name and eerily cheerful likeness have enjoyed nonstop popularity for generations. I didn't personally murder Little Debbie but maybe I would've wanted to, who's to say? I think anyone would want to kill Little Debbie, eventually. I mean the hat alone. Thoughts of strangulation. Creamy filling. Given a sufficient duration of exposure to Little Debbie who wouldn't want her dead, and violently dead? To witness her death would not be enough, one would have the strongest urge to take part, to at least assist in some way. Maybe in a sense then we all killed Little Debbie, and that's why her snacks are like little treats we give to ourselves, in the doldrums of a weekday afternoon, just because. I have other innocent corporate logos to discuss regarding relentless fantasies of rape and dismemberment, but that can wait for another time when I'm a little hungrier.