I love you, Grandma Utz.
One day Heaven came down to south-central Pennsylvania in the form of the potato.
Farmers were awestruck. Was ist das? the Mennonites asked each other.
Well, eventually, the answer was apparent:
Hier ich brate mit Schmalz! Ich kann nicht anders!
Thus was born Grandma Utz potato chips. Salty, lardy, greasy, Pennsylvania German goodness. It is more addicting than crack cocaine, better than sex, and even better than scrapple.
Und ich? Ich liebe Grandma Utz. Ich kann nicht anders!
What will I do?
I was born a good boy. I worked hard, I loved my mother, I respected my father, and I had a plan for life.
When I was sixteen years old, I ate my first Grandma Utz potato chips. I couldn't stop until an entire can was gone.
I looked at myself in the mirror, but the shame never lasted as long as the hunger for the salt, the grease, and the glorious knowledge that this potato was fried in lard.
Now my mother never hears from her son. Two months ago, her son showed up at her doorstep and asked for money. She just gave the money. Hell, if he doesn't get it from her, he'll just steal from someone else.
It's the chips that ruined him.