On November 21st, 2012 (almost two fortnights before the supposed end of the world), our dearest friend and American treasure, Twinkie (known to his friends as Twinkles) became homeless. That’s right, folks, our beloved Twinkie, the god for whom Americans would sell their souls, is homeless. Apparently, his Hostess died, leaving him with nothing—not even a cardboard box on the side of the road. It’s been rough for Twinkie, having to cope with his living situation and the death of his Hostess. “She was like a mother to me,” he says. All he has now is a heavy heart and a creamy center.

Twinkie is currently trying to find a job and hopes to then buy a new house. He got a job working at the local morgue, but it didn’t work out—I guess he’s a bit too soft for that. I suppose the job made him feel rather crumby. He almost got some work at a local bakery, but it turned out that the employer had been merely egging him on.

Twinkie’s friends have been rather sweet about the situation, though. His mother is even letting him stay with her for a while. I know newspapers are supposed to be unbiased—just the straight-up facts—but, if you ask me, it seems like he’s milking her for all she’s worth. Twinkie is eating all her food and using her electricity, and isn’t even thanking her for it. He hasn’t left the couch in two weeks. “Looking for a job is too much work,” he says. “Maybe I should just—” (at this point, Twinkie falls asleep midsentence). “He was so close to getting a job at the flour shop,” his mother comments, “but he was allergic to all the petunias.”

“I just keep getting caked with bad news. I give up,” Twinkie says disparagingly. He lets out a small wail. “Sorry, I guess this all a bit too corny and sappy. It’s just…my life is ruined, man. Ruined.”

“Eh, he’ll get a job. He better a get a job,” his mother says, somewhat threateningly.

What future is there for Twinkie? I don’t think there is one. Sorry that there’s no exciting conclusion. I guess this story is a little too vanilla.