At this very moment, as you’re reading this, somewhere in America, a factory is making candy corn, on purpose.
A hairnetted worker in a lab coat stands before a giant stainless steel vat, emptying bags of sugar, chalk, library paste, industrial by-products, witch’s tears, and guar gum. The function of the guar gum is a mystery to everyone in the room, but all foodstuffs must have it, by federal law.
(In a faraway corner of the factory floor, another worker salts one single shelled peanut, so that they must put a label on the bag stating the facility also processes peanuts. No one knows why they do this; it seems self-destructive.)
The mixture is brought to a boil, and eventually the bubbling cauldron is tipped into an extruding machine, which poops out the little allegedly-corn-kernel-shaped triangles.
In another part of the factory, deep underground, chained captive demons individually paint each little “corn” with cheerful fall colors while screaming in agony, imbuing each purported candy with sinister negative energy.
The finished product is bagged and shipped across the United States.
But here’s the thing: I kind of like it?
I’ll find myself eating the candy corn, in fact finishing the bowl, while thinking “This isn’t good. Is it?“