Graham Crackers were created to stifle the libido. Marshmallows are a sickly-sweet, cloying blob that, when properly heated, becomes a sort of confectionery napalm, a substance suitable at first for administering serious burns and then cooling into the world’s most maddeningly effective adhesive.
Chocolate’s fine, I guess.
But the cultural persistence of smores can be attributed to nothing other than the twin forces behind all cultural decay: nostalgia and bad taste. And while smores certainly do taste bad, it’s clearly nostalgia that does most to ensure their continued presence. This is how the world ends, bursting into flames over a campfire.
But seriously, fuck smores. Fuck covering your hands with a sticky mess at the one context when you’re least likely to have access to running water. Fuck the cutesy apostrophe in the name, offering us a glimpse of a world where we delegate branding to old church ladies. There is only one “s’more” that is valid, and it belongs to Busta Rhymes.
Verified: Smores remain an awful, inedible mess, propped up only by fireside traditions. Together, we can end the smores scourge.
— Anil Dash (@anildash) October 12, 2014