Halloween is just around the corner, and before we know it that corner will be crawling with children dressed as Disney characters begging for candy. Some of these children will end the night in sugar comas, passed out on pillowcases full of Twix and Twizzlers. Most of these poor unfortunate souls, however, will spend their nights plagued by terrors of the most dreaded candy in all the land: Almond Joys. Yes, Almond Joys, the favorite candy bar of anyone with an IRA account or a Britta.
I’ve never been able to consume an Almond Joy in its entirety -- my body immediately rejects them, much like dental floss and early morning exercise. I love chocolate, I like almonds, and I tolerate coconut, but I detest Almond Joys with every fiber of my being. I know I’m not alone. There’s something unequivocally repulsive about an Almond Joy. Maybe it’s how the packaging inconsistently replaces Os with coconuts, or how the namesake almond looks like an afterthought, or how the candy bar tastes like my Sperrys smell, which is not good. It seems illogical for somebody to pass out Almond Joys on Halloween, but people do it all the time, so there must be some sort of explanation.
The simple justification is a dietary one. Perhaps these adults, like most adults in America, are watching their weight. They know if they buy a jumbo pack of delicious candy, they’ll snack throughout the night, and devour the leftovers. By purchasing Almond Joys, they know they’ll be safe from temptation and happily willing to trash all unclaimed candies. Let’s be real, nobody’s looking to cash-in Weight Watchers points on Almond Joys. In the wise words of "Hamlet's" Polonius, the Oprah of the Shakespearean age, “Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.”
Another possible explanation is that these adults are using Pavlovian conditioning to train children to keep off their property. Every time a child rings the doorbell, the homeowners greet them with an Almond Joy, reinforcing the relationship between their doorbell and those nasty nuggets. If the homeowners apply this method year after year, the children will eventually learn to associate the doorbell with (gag) Almond Joys, and avoid the place altogether, effectively removing the house from the Halloween circuit. Classic.
The true explanation, though, may exist on a deeper level. We must keep in mind that these living, breathing, human beings (we assume) are buying (we assume) bags on bags of Almond Joys. Every day of every week of every year, they spend real time in real offices earning real money to spend on really gross Almond Joys. Perhaps they see their lives reflected in the Almond Joy, memories of lofty goals and empty promises. An adult’s joy is like the almond itself: roasted, salty, and calcified -- a single seed atop a foundation of "fauxconut," coated with dusty chocolate and a wrinkly outer layer. Thus, the Almond Joy becomes a purchased manifestation of adult happiness.
Halloween isn’t fun, as an adult. Every year, adults are reminded of the children they used to be, the streets they used to run, and the joy they used to glean from a free piece of processed sugar. Nowadays, they can no longer zoom around in their favorite superhero costume, banging on neighborhood doors in demand of free snacks (well, technically they could, but they’d probably be arrested). Instead, they are forced to give away their candy to ungrateful children upon request, each transferred treat servings as a reminder of a disappearing youth. No wonder they pass out Almond Joys. Heck, if I were them, I’d be passing out black licorice and raw asparagus.
So children, don’t hate the humans handing you Almond Joys, pity them, for they cannot control the terrible life-choices they are making. Love them and fear them, for perhaps, one day, you too will pass out Almond Joys to the children of your neighborhood.
