Dan Savage wrote a trifling counterpoint to my HyperCritical column in the Stranger last week, in which I add my voice to the admittedly very large chorus of candy corn haters.
In response, and at the risk of appropriating a "basic queer" identity, I present the letter of someone who is on my side—which is the right side—of this issue.
And to answer a question you might have in your mind right now: yes, I fucking know it's three days after Halloween and that nobody cares about candy debates anymore, if they ever did. But you know what's still lying around all over the fucking office three days after Halloween? Those tri-colored horror pills that people thoughtlessly dish out to children. You might be done with candy corn, but candy corn will never be done with you.
Anyway, to the letter:
I'll type it out for you. Emphasis mine.
I read, with great empathy, your screed against candy corn in the Oct. 25th the Stranger. I could not agree more. Going back to grammer [sic, regrettably, but forgivably] school days, when I finished trick or treating on Halloween night, the first task was to spread a newspaper on my bed, dump the bag of loot, separate all the candy corn, and march it out to the incinerator in my rural Palo Alto backyard. Then, and now, I hate those evil, pure poison orange and yellow goblets of crap. I also am sure if you eat them, your teeth will look like candy corn. My girlfriend came up with the theory that I secretly kept a barrel of candy corn next to my desk, with a stainless steel scoop so I could not help myself. A whacko image, but NOT TRUE. I hate candy corn.
P.S. I worked at Value Village for six years. Your former next door neighbor.
Thank you, former neighbor and fellow former rural dweller, for your support. We must stand strong against my Chicago-born boss' attempts to divide us, to bully us into keeping silent about what everyone knows: candy corn is a god damn chore, an abomination unfit even for the mouth of the incinerator.