Every year at about this time, you hear on the blogs and in the emails and on various websites and (if you actually get out of the house, unlike myself) from people at large just generally bitching out loud about the so-called fun-sized chocolate bar. (I believe that’s the so-called fun-sized candy bar to my fine American friends.) The so-called fun-sized chocolate bar is, of course, smaller than the regular chocolate bar by an order of celestial magnitude, and most people who get wound up by this sort of thing kvetch on and on about how it’s all just some stupid exercise in marketing speak and how a real fun-sized chocolate bar would be the size of your head, etc., etc.
Here’s the real truth.
Fun-sized chocolate bars aren’t called that out of any reference to their size, ironic or otherwise. They’re called that because you can eat the little bastards indefinitely without ever stopping.
Real chocolate bars have precise weights and sizes that are scientifically formulated to satisfy your psychological need to eat a chocolate bar. Chocolate bars are so-designed in order to prolong the sense of being satisfied by one, so that in the end, you recall not the taste or eating of the bar itself, but the serotonin rush in the aftermath. This is what you gets you eating the next time, in the best kind of addictive spiral. The exact number of calories, the exact balance of cocoa, fat, and preservatives that allow a single chocolate bar to be the eating experience that it is are rendered by arcane formulas run on aging twinned supercomputers buried in bunkers beneath Hershey, PA, and the Mars plant in Slough, England. The only people privy to a full understanding of their secrets are a sect of blind Shaolin monks controlled with an iron fist by the Trilateral Commission.
It’s true. You can look it up.
But the fun-sized chocolate bar...
The fun-sized chocolate bar follows no carefully crafted formula for critical mass. On the contrary, the fun-sized bars are exactly of a confectionary and caloric prime factor that allows your body to not actually notice that you’re eating them at all. And so you eat them. And you eat them. And you eat them. Under normal circumstances, two chocolate bars is too many, but even if you measure by mundane weight and calculate out that one full-sized chocolate bar is the equivalent of, say, ten fun-sized chocolate bars, it won’t matter, because you’ll plow through thirty, sixty, ninety, three hundred of these fuckers without missing a beat.
The fun of a fun-sized chocolate bar is the rush that comes of your blood eventually containing more cocoa than white-cell plasma. The fun of fun-sized is the sensation of hanging suspended between glucose-driven cardiac arrest and diabetic coma, never knowing which direction your body’s going to go. Fun-sized is about finally understanding what it feels like to be the frog that gets put in a pot of water that’s brought slowly to a boil, never noticing that he’s being cooked until it’s far too late.