Do you remember in 1991 when Sun Chips were released? Man, I do. I dunno if it was specific to my college, or a Pacific Northwest thing, or if this was true nationwide, but they were like a Big Deal in these parts, heralding a new era in snacks in which you would no longer simply opt for something delicious and terrible for you and could now agonize over whether to pay more for something you’d enjoy less. It got so bad at the Evergreen State College that if you bought anything other than them at the campus store you had to avert your eyes from the Sun Chips in shame.

Sun Chips were recently in the news again. Frito Lay had been selling them in new-fangled compostable packaging, but had to rollback to the earlier bags because the new ones crinkled so loud it sounded like a forest fire in your ears. We have compostable coffee cups in my place of business, so I know first-hand what a pain this variety of packaging is (and causes). As near as I can tell, the compostable coffee cups protect the environment in the following manner:

1. Coffee is dispensed into the compostable cup.
2. While you are carrying the beverage back to your office, the acidic coffee seeps through the corn-based material.
3. You receive a burn from the scalding hot liquid.
4. Eventually you come to associate excruciating pain with coffee consumption.
5. As millions of office workers swear off java altogether, the need for coffee plantations plummets and thousands of acres of rainforest are spared from the bulldozer.

Rating: These are not as unpalatable as I remember, perhaps because 20 years of increasingly “healthy” snacks make them taste pretty good by comparison. In fact, while these will never be my first choice, I could actually see myself eating them again. A pity I can’t hear myself eating them, on account of the bag. 45¢/$1

At two bucks and fifty cents, the PureFit bar is the most expensive item in the machine, with a price exceeding even that of the dreaded Tuna Salad Kit. Judging from the resounding “thud” it made after falling from its perch and slamming into the dispenser tray, it also has a density comparable to that of a dwarf star.

The package is chock full o’ data, the PureFit marketing guys clearly having graduated from the Dr. Bronner School of Design. The fact that the bar is gluten-free is mentioned no less than four times. On the back, where they had some abhorrent negative space, they shoehorned in a blurb about the virtue of pet adoption. I guess the idea here is that a marathoner will have something to read between miles 17 and 19 after pulling this out of their pocket, and Infinite Jest is notoriously hard to digest while running. Although perhaps not as hard to digest as this:

I love that the list of ingredients contains made up stuff, like “Energy Smart™”:

Like, you can do that? Just put fantastical ingrediants on your package, as long as you parenthetically list the actual ingrediants afterward? If this is true, why doesn’t every candybar include something like “Elixir of the Unicorn!™ (corn syrup, tetra sodium pyrophosphate, sawdust)”.

Rating: Bleh, this tastes awful. I mean you’d expect it to, being an energy bar and all. But why go through the charade of calling it “Chocolate Brownie”? When I’m working out I don’t want a chocolate brownie, I want and energy bar; but if my energy bar claims to be a chocolate brownie then it damned well better deliver. Instead you get the worst of both world: a food substance akin to drywall with a side of crushing disappointment. Now if you’ll pardon me, I need to go mainline some gluten. 15¢/$1

I’ve never understood the appear of Irregularly Sized Food, such as sliders (small burgers) or the Brobdingnagian Gulp (120 oz. of Mr. Pibb). Why can’t people just eat stuff in the size god made it?

This goes for snacks too. For example, the “Fun Size” candy is decidedly not fun. If it’s small enough to insert into your nasal canal, it supplies a quantity of joy insufficient to meet the “fun” bar. That’s science right there, yo.

Then, on the other end of the spectrum, you have abominations like this:

This looks like something an thief would use to bludgeon a mark into submission. And I love how they say this has “twice the crisp!” and then immediately qualify with “* as regular Kit Kat”, as if crispocity were an actual unit of measurement and they wanted to be painstakingly accurate in their claims.

But what is most baffling to me is that this product is a complete subversion of the Kit Kat paradigm. In countless advertisements, Kit Kat has showcased the joy people have in breaking the cookie sticks in two. I mean, check out the animation on the Kit Kat homepage, for instance. Even the Kit Kat slogan is “give me a break”, fer crissakes. And then they release a version that could only be broken by through the use of bionics? Does not compute.

Rating: This tastes identical to a regular Kit Kat, as near as I can tell. Which is to say: I don’t understand the need for this new format. It’s the same slightly-oversweet flavor, with none of the potential for sharing. Or maybe that is the selling point, and this is specifically marketed toward jerks who want the ability to shrug and say “no can do, bro” when someone asks for a portion of their snack. They should change the name to reflect this, although I freely admit that “Kit Hog” lacks pizzazz. 45¢/$1

An ancient Chinese custom states that if you save someone’s life, you are thereafter responsible for it. Well, honestly, I have no idea if that is a real custom or not. They said that in an a episode of Bewitched I saw once. I think they did this one on Lavern and Shirley, too.

And anyway, if it was true then the CEO of Nissin would be sending me checks weekly, because that’s dude’s products pretty much kept me alive in college. Exhibit A:

Well, I was more of a Top Ramen man, myself. I can’t imagine why though, as I sit here eating my Cup O’ Noodles–this is clearly a superior product. Not only does it come with it’s own container, but each serving comes complete with 6 dehydrated peas, corn kernels, and carrot shards. That’s six units a piece!!

Here’s the back of the box:

Lots of text, and yet I am pretty sure this is the first item I’ve consumed that did not have a URL on its package. Seriously, I am searching everywhere for one, but as far as I can see there’s OH MY GOD I just this second realized that the name of this product is “Cup Noodles”. There is no “O’” in “Cup O’ Noodles”! WTF universe?! My entire life is predicated on a lie.

Rating: Unlike Snickers, which tasted different than I remembered, Cup mmrgh Noodles is pretty much exactly as I recall. Of course, given the fact that I ate approximately one infinity packages of Top Raman over a four year period, I’m guessing that there are large portions of my memory devoted to the stuff (and explains why I cannot remember my son’s middle name). That said, it’s somewhat less satisfying when eaten at a desk during a work break than it is when eating at 2:15 AM after smoking a bowl. Also, as you get older, you just become less and less inclined to voluntarily ingest sodium tripolyphoshate. Fun fact, for you youngsters out there. 65¢/$1

I’m not one to masticate and tell, but I have been with a lot of candybars in my time. You know how it is: you’re young, you’re with a new Sugar Daddy every other week. I was in a monoyummy relationship with Charlston Chews for a while. Spent a year with the 100 Grand Bar. Even hooked up with Bit O’ Honey a few times.

But after you’ve played the field for a while, it’s time to settle down. You find the best of what’s out there and stick with it. For me, it was this:

With a roster of ingredients consisting of milk chocolate peanuts, carmel, and nougat, Snickers is the like Justice League of candybars: it only contains the top guns, with no second-stringers like toffee or Elongated man.

This is what the back of the wrapper looks like these days:

This is one of a series of hip ads that M&M Mars has been running for a few years, based on neologisms and puns. I find it unseemly. Snickers is a classic; giving it a too-clever-by-half advertising campaign is like putting Ingrid Bergman in a miniskirt. Well, that doesn’t sound so bad, on reflection. Objection withdrawn.

Rating: Whoa, this is a lot sweeter than I recall. My first assumption was that they had changed the recipe in someway, perhaps by replacing the sugar with high-frutos corn syrup. But a scan of the ingrediants still showed sugar at the top of the list:

But further down there it is: corn syrup. Maybe not the newfangled high-frutos kind, but obviously a newer addition that had altered the taste.

Or … maybe not.

Huh. Maybe it is the same candybar I ate as a kid. Maybe I’m the one who’s changed. It’s not you Snickers, it’s me. But we had a good run. And you’ll always be the standard by which all candybars are judged. 95¢/$1.

Is this the most insufferable package you’ve ever seen?

“I’m low-fat! I’m gluten free! I’m made from whole grain!” Oh for the love of Mike. It refers to itself as a “crisp” fercrissakes, so it even has the whole faux-British accent thing going. I’m not sure what font the “Finally, a crisp with NO artificial flavors …” blurbs is in, but I’m going to go ahead and call it Arroganta.

Man, can you even imagine what the RiceWorks employees are like? They probably dominate the conversation with boasts about how they only eat organic produce still planted in the ground, and wonder aloud why everyone doesn’t attend 4:30 AM yoga class.

Like most blowhards, this bag is a bad habit of telling the same story over and over again. Saying you are made of rice and made of grain and gluten-free and vegan and celiac friendly and kosher is pretty much repeating yourself, much like saying you are a huge fan of anime and single.

I was also surprised to discover that I had purchased negative one serving:

This make me hesitant to open it, for fear that doing so would obligate me to fill the bag with chips-I-mean-crisps of my own making and send it to the company.

Rating: Hey, these really are crisp. And they taste healthy–not “having trouble choking this down” healthy, but like the flavor powder is real onion and garlic instead of some compound patented by DuPont. The RiceWorks website bears all this out, and their FAQ covers every possible concern. Now I kind of feel bad about making fun of them (the RiceWorks guys, I mean; anime fans, you are on your own). So yeah, I guess this really is a pretty good for you–or at least not bad. That doesn’t change the fact that you are eating slabs o’ rice, though. 50¢/$1.

Every great, world changing endeavor has hit a snag or two. Pythagoras got as far as a² + b² before drawing a blank. Genghis Khan’s conquest of Eurasia was delayed by several months while he reviewed resumes of Mongols. Michelangelo quit work on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, until his buddy Doug talked him into painting Adam with his wang hanging out.

Something similar happened with Vending Spree. Welllllllllll, not really. Honestly I just kinda got tired of writing about chips. But I am back now and galvanized–GALVANIZED, I TELLS YA–after discovering this in the machine the other day:

The Swedish Fish themselves are nothing new–they have long occupied position 158. But prior to this week, they have always appeared in a bag, like so:

Now, with no increase in price, the Nordic’s most renowned ichthysnack was available in a seemingly larger package. Well, actually the box and the bag were roughly the same size:

But the box has something the bag lacks: breadth. So surely it holds more, right?

Alas, that is exactly what those crafty Swedes want you to think. But after you pony up your $1.75 and open your acquisition:

The box, it turns out, is just there to disguise the fact that you are getting a smaller bag (one that holds 3.5 oz., as opposed to the original’s 5 oz.). And to serve as a portable billboard.

Outrageous! Exposing this scam ought to be the plot of the fourth novel in the Millennium Trilogy, as Mikael Blomkvist and his Swedish Fish consuming sidekick track down the culprits responsible for this swindle. Think, The Girl With Type 2 Diabetes.

Rating: Swedish Fish have a flavor I like to call “Strawberry-well-hmm-actually-not-quite-strawberry”, which falls smack dab in the middle between delicious and cryptic. I’m not a huge fan of the whole “gummy” genre but my six-year-old son is, and anything that can be used to bribe him into putting on his pants in the morning is okay by me. 70¢/$1.

I have long harbored suspicions about Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

Specifically, about the relationship between size and deliciousocity. Because, to my mind, the “Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups Miniatures”–you know, the eat-em-by-the-handful variety found in Trick-or-Treat bags and the bowl on your reception desk–have a better ratio of chocolate to PB than the full-sized thing.

Well, when I find myself with a scientific question in need of answering, I know what to do: outsource it to someone smart. In this case, I tossed it to Rob Cockerham of Cockeyed. You can read his findings here: How Much is Inside Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?.

Rating: Regardless of size, these things are pretty damned good. That said, my enjoyment was marred by just too things. One, (a), the full-sized cups are just a lil’ too sweet for my liking. And that’s coming from someone who has not only a sweet tooth but a sweet uvula and a sweet esophagus and pretty much a sweet alimentary tract as a whole. I suspect the real, secret creation of these things involved the guy with the chocolate bar bumping into the guy with the open jar of peanut butter and then the two being struck by a lorry full of sugar.

Also, two, (b), Reese has apparently trademarked their background.

This probably jeopardizes publication of my epistolary novel, which tells of growing up white and middle-class in the suburbs, and is entitled “The Color Orange”. Lame. 85¢/$1.

Sorry for the unexpected hiatus, but the project hit a snag less than 10 items in. And here it is:

Unfortunately this is gum. I just don’t know what to say about gum, even after a week of deliberation. You put it in your mouth, chew until the flavor is gone, and then, from the third minute on, it just hangs around like an unwelcome houseguest, perched on your sofa long after dessert has been eaten, the wine has run out, and the conversation has dwindled to observations about the lateness of the hour. You could eat a mint and then spend an hour gnawing on an eraser for the same effect.

I know some people really like gum. When I was in the Peace Corps, the fellow volunteer I shared a house with an enthusiast. She was also terribly polite, which meant that we had the following exchange more often than any other by an order of magnitude:

Her: Do you want some gum?

Me: No thank you, I’m not a gum chewer.

Her: Suit yourself

Two years of this convinced me that gum-philia and -indifferentia were hardwired at the genetic level, like a widow’s peak or the ability to enjoy Project Runway. I should note that my roommate was also red-haired and left-handed, Devil’s traits all. Why our government allowed this woman to share her masticating ways with the developing world is beyond me. If a small boy in South America attempts to sell you chicle, blame Rose.

Me, I was never a fan, even as a kid. The only fun thing to do with gum, in my opinion, was to carefully refold an empty wrapper, put it halfway back in the pack, and then offer it to a friend as a joke. This was pretty much our only form of entertainment before the Atari 2600. Now gum doesn’t even offer this fleeting pleasure. Offering fake-gum to your boss and bellowing “oh BURRRRRRN!!” when he opens the wrapper gets noted on your performance review, I’ve uh heard.

Rating: Yeah so anyway: it’s gum. 35¢/$1.

With my factually-correct denunciation of cashews continuing to raise hackles, this is a poor time for me to opine on the merits of almonds. Alas, the vagaries of “random selection”give me no choice. Lady Luck seems determined to get her nuts into my hands.

Only three natural items in the machine and I get two of them in the first week. It’s going to be a long, heavily-processed slog from here.

Fortunately the extraordinary health benefits of Blue Diamond Wasabi & Soy Sauce Almonds, as itemized on the back of the package, should see me through to the end:

Scientific evidence suggests, but does not prove, that eating 1.5 ounces per day of most nuts, such as almonds, as part of a diet low in saturated fat and cholesterol, may reduce the risk of heart disease.

Jeezum crow, that’s like a national convention of weasel words right there (“AmbivilaCon XXII!”). You’d reckon some Blue Diamond lawyer got $800/hr to cough out that convoluted string of meaningless boilerplate but, no, it actually comes straight from the FDA’s list of Qualified Health Claims.

(It’s hard to pick a favorite off that FDA page, but “One study suggests that consuming tomatoes does not reduce the risk of pancreatic cancer, but one weaker, more limited study suggests that consuming tomatoes may reduce this risk” is in the top 3 for sure. I bet the members of the American Association of Tomato Growers were popping champagne corks when that was unveiled.)

Rating: The “Wasabi & Soy Sauce” seasoning is fairly muted, but overpowers the blandness of almonds anyway. Protip: if you want the original flavor of your snack to stand out, do not coat it with something specifically engineered to mask the taste of raw fish.

Not that I’m necessarily complaining–I like Wasabi, so this is right up my alley. True, much of my fondness for Wasabi comes from watching my wife consume it, as she is habitually puts too much on her nigiri and follows every bite with a hilarious bout of face-flushing and hand-flapping and just-below-the-eyes-sweating. And that aspect is lamentably absent here. But at least these don’t end with me getting stabbed in the neck with a chopstick for laughing. 80¢/$1.