HEALTH PROBLEMS WORSE THAN LOVE CANAL(FOR THE CONGENITAL IDIOTS WHO CONTACTED STATE AGENCIES REGARDING THIS STORY, THIS IS A SPOOF.)
HERSHEY, Pa - Driving along 322 West, the first unmistakable waft of chocolate hits motorists without warning seconds after they've left behind the harsh diesel smells of the nation's first superhighway, the Pennsylvania Turnpike. For families on limited budgets, it is a summer ritual to take the twelve mile ride on this winding central Pennsylvania road toward "the sweetest place on earth," the world-famous Hershey's chocolate factory. With windows rolled down and children's heads bobbing ecstatically in and out, parents savor every delectable aromatic moment. To the average passing visitor, this is heaven on earth.
But the people who actually reside in Hershey, or as they put it, are "trapped" there, tell a very different story. For generations of Hershey residents, there has been a code of silence about Hershey's "dirty little secret," rarely shared with strangers -- which means anyone who lives five miles away beyond Route 72 -- for fear that the chocolate factory, the town's lifeblood, would dry up if it ever got out. But this week, a Surgeon General's report will be released that point blank tells everyone in Hershey to get out, while they still can.
The Surgeon General's report concludes that the incessant exposure to toxic levels of chocolate fumes send blood glucose levels soaring many times beyond even dangerous diabetic ranges. By age 40, the average resident's pancreas has quadrupled its normal size in a desperate but futile attempt to compensate. Chromosomes are permanently skewed. Tales of two-headed babies "with skulls shaped like peanut butter cups" abound -- "paper wrapper and all." One African-American boy, claims resident Bradleys Roadhouse, "looked exactly like a 'Kit Kat' Bar. His sister's head came to a point like a 'Kiss'." As one resident put it, Hershey makes Love Canal "seem like a health resort."
Helen Palsgraf has owned a local store next to the chocolate factory for 48 years called The Palsgraf Carbon Paper/Slide Rule/Betamax Outlet. The store has been struggling the past few years, but Mrs. Palsgraf, with eight fingers on her right hand and three on her left, was one of the few residents not afraid to speak up. "I go home at night and I can't get the smell of York Peppermint Patties out of my clothes," she says. "That hideous odor has seeped into my soul," she said as she grabbed two baseballs in her right hand and simultaneously tossed them to her son, high school senior Emil. Emil has blurred vision and has seen his genitalia shrivel up due to exposure to the fumes. "In the lockerroom, the guys call me 'Twizzler' for obvious reasons," he sighs. For others, like farmer Bennett Boushay, the chocolate exposure has caused a gender identity crisis. Boushay is openly referred to as the "Jolly Rancher," a mean-spirited play on the name of Hershey's popular candy.
But Hershey's current CEO, Velveeta Hershey-Lugosi, scoffs at what she calls the "urban legends" that link serious health risks to her company's chocolate. "Look at what chocolate has done for me," she says unbuttoning her blouse. "Look at my 'Mounds'! That's right -- I'm not ashamed of it, they're made of 'Mounds' bars. Go ahead and take a bite," she laughs. "How's that for an 'Ice Breaker'?"
When confronted with the Surgeon General's report, Ms. Hershey-Lugosi categorically denied any cover-up regarding Hershey's supposed health risks. "So I'm the bad guy because this 'Twizzler' boy is not well-endowed?" She became increasingly agitated as each allegation was read aloud. "There's nothing wrong with being a 'Jolly Rancher,'" she said in a raised voice. "Why, 'Jolly Rancher' has bold fruit flavors, and it stays hard, very hard, I tell you!"
Overheated, she frantically fanned herself and began biting at her fingers until "crack," "crack," "crack," like the sound of someone biting the ears off a chocolate rabbit. I noticed that Ms. Hershey-Lugosi was missing three fingers. More damning allegations were read, and she fanned herself with greater rapidity. Then, "plop," "plop." It seems her breasts really were made of "Mounds," but now they were lying on the floor. "So what if the girl's head came to a point like a 'Kiss'? She's lucky I don't sue her for trademark infringement," she said.
Suddenly, Ms. Hershey-Lugosi seemed to be shrinking in her chair. The sickening smell of chocolate was overwhelming. "Excuse me," she murmered, "I have a case of diarrhea." Down she went, further and further. Finally there was nothing left but a puddle of Hershey's syrup on the CEO's chair.
The windows of my Toyota Tercel were shut as tight as the Japanese automaker allowed as I raced out on 322 East at more than double the speed limit. And when I finally reached the Turnpike, I opened the windows to the glorious odor of diesel fumes which, at that moment, happened to be the sweetest smell on earth.
