Guest Post: Lindy Moone killed the Twinkie

Readers, I’d like you to meet Lindy, my American author friend who lives in Turkey, and who no doubt keeps those around her laughing all the time, because she cannot resist a joke or a pun. You have to love someone who introduces herself like this:

The wildly enigmatic (mostly false) Lindy Moone comes from a short line of mental health professionals (true), and now lives far, far away from them: someplace warm and sometimes rainy, near the sea, where she can play with her pencils as much as she likes (true). She trained as an artist (true) but always wanted to write (painfully true) stories — and always did, mostly in secret (mostly true). She is stunningly beautiful (sadly, false), twenty-two years old (Pants on Fire!), and is married to “The Great Fisherman Boo” (true). Lindy is a founding member of “Improv for Introverts,” a small troupe of satirical bloggers at the funny (mostly true) fiction blog, “Listen to Me, Our CEO Speaks” (true). Lindy loves dogs, cats, and thunderstorms, but not at the same time, because it hurts (so, so true). Some of her favorite books are “Catch-22,” The “Gormenghast” series by Mervyn Peake, “Alice in Wonderland” and “The Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy” (true). So that explains her writing (mostly true) nonsense.

Oh, and she has such a crush on Neil Gaiman (true).

Today, Lindy confesses to causing the Twinkie and other disasters. References here are to her book, Hyperlink from Hell. Look at this cover–you’ll understand. Your turn, Lindy!

Me(di)a Culpa. Thoughts on Blame, Shame (and Shameless Plugs)

Yes, dear readers, it’s true: if the Twinkie is soon dead, it’s my fault. I know what you’re thinking, but don’t blame the Unions. Don’t blame the CEO or Executives (with their bloated paychecks). Don’t blame the Bloated Populace at large (or extra large), for forgoing Hostess’s sugary, glutinous goo for something healthier (or something bigger). And don’t blame the Media. Because it was Me. All Me. I killed the Twinkie.

Right here, in my humble hovel of a hut. I wrote it to death.

How do I know? Because when I write, bad things happen. In my first “In(s)ane Mystery,” I wrote that New Orleans was turned into Venice by a hurricane, and that the water in its “canals” was covered with an oily slick. So what happened? Hurricane Katrina, and the B. P. oil platform disaster. And I just had to write that God said of humanity: “… when it all comes down to it, you just want someone to blame and a ‘Twinkie’.”

Why God smote the Twinkie, not me, only He can know — but it’s surely my fault. I knew He had a temper, so I should have known better than to mess with Him. All I know is: now everyone’s playing the blame game, and Twinkie profiteering proliferates.

To my shame, when I first realized I was responsible for Twinkie Doomsday, I thought it would be enough to face(book) the music:

I’m so sorry! The Twinkie’s demise is all my fault! In my (first) book (of “The After Ward Series”), I “dissed” the Almighty by saying He was “chock-full of man-made preservatives, like Twinkies”! This isn’t the first time An In(s)ane Mystery has had its wicked way with popular culture. Every time I picked a name for something in the first book (“Hyperlink from Hell: A Couch Potato’s Guide to the Afterlife,” now available at Amazon), a new TV series came out using it. (The Big Bang Theory, Haven and Sanctuary, to name just a few.)

This sucks! That Twinkie reference should have lasted for eternity…

So, if there are any other iconic food items you’d like off the shelves forever (or companies you’d like to go belly-up, or island nations in need of a tsunami), let me know. My pen is mightier than the Twinkie, and book three is still available for product placement. (I draw the line at SlimJims.)

Seriously, now. Got any ideas for products to be nibbled by a (poetic) ghost dog, an Almighty Intern, and a (Rastafarian) kid sprung from Purgatory and accelerated to adulthood? They’re not picky eaters.

(But chocolate’s out. Chocolate’s no good for ghost dogs.)

So, dear readers, don’t blame the unions (US) or the Management (The Big Bald Guy, Upstairs). The Twinkie didn’t die of class warfare, the separation of church and state, or even of neglect – I killed it. Mea culpa (mea cupcake). I caused Hurricane Katrina and the B. P. oil spill, too, and, coming soon, dinosaur vampires. (So sorry, but at least you have to invite them in. No barging!)

Now, dear writers: the time has come to take the blame. Confess the sins of your own pens (and word processors). Have you started a War or Zombie Apocalypse? Are you, and you alone, responsible for Obesity or Tooth Decay?

Face(book) the music, today. Do it for Me. It’s my birthday. – Lindy Moone

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LINDY!