You know, I've never fostered any sort of ill will towards the Dutch. I mean, they're a pretty mellow group of people. I like that. I admire that. But now those clog-wearing, Saxon-descended, under-sea-level-living bastards have to die. Because now we know their secret. Oh yeah, our eyes are open. We found out about Double Zout, and it's time to deal the pain.

Ben, through his shady European contacts, discovered the black licorice atrocity, and was instantly appauled by it's very description. "Zout," apparently, means "salt." So that translates to double salt. Double. Salt. Black licorice. And DOUBLE SALT. Hmmmmm. I can only imagine that somebody took one too many whacks to the head from a low hanging windmill and mustered up this brainstorm of a snack.

A bad candy if we ever saw one.

Double Zout (or DZ, as it shall heretofore be sometimes known) are small, black tablets that remind one of a psychodelic drug. Not real psychodelic drugs, mind you. More like the pseudo-hallucinagenics shown in all of those anti-drug films we had to watch in junior high. DZ's prescription-like qualities are further enhanced by the fact that its initials are molded on both sides of the circular, dime-sized horror, kind of like a Tylenol, with the T imprinted on the front of the tablet. Except it has DZ imprinted on it, not a T. Obviously. Anyway, Ben thinks that pilots who fly spy planes are given a DZ to swallow before each mission, so that, should they be shot down and interogated, their faces will be so twisted in freakish, disemboweling agony that they'll be unable to speak, and eventually the sheer salt content of the DZ will dehydrate their entire body, leaving nothing behind but a pile of calcium and carbon. But then again, Ben has some wierd theories.

Besides the fact that Double Zout looks like a prescription drug, its outward appearance is one of benevolence. We were unable to fathom how such an innocent looking candy as DZ could taste bad enough to qualify amongst our other distinguished treats. It wasn't mushy, squishy, smelly, goopy, crunchy, or sticky. It seemed like an honest to goodness, chemically processed, sugar saturated American candy. Which, of course, is all a part of the deception. Because when you bite into a Double Zout, when you make that first faltering step towards total, thourough, and complete self destruction, what you are really biting into is a chewy chunk of our favorite sodium source, Sabroso.

This is, after all, double salt.

Ben and I had it bad. I mean, it was BAD. The usual kitchen sink vomiting and all of that. I was unaware that sodium chloride was capable of inducing the unbearable pains I experienced. It tasted like a midget had shoved his sweaty palms into my mouth and was playing with my tonsels. Or like a salty car tire. "GOD DAMN HOLLAND! MAY THE DUTCH FESTER AND BURN IN A SHARP, SPIKEY HELL OF MY OWN DESIGN!" I angrily declared, shortly after which I collapsed to the tiled kitchen floor, curled up in the fetal position, weeping the soft tears of a child, as Ben gently held my head in his lap and whispered soothing thoughts into my ear. I quivered in pain for several minutes, as my glands tried to muster up as many fluids as they could to purge the evil brine-swill from my mouth. Time hung like a wet cloth over my sweat-drenched frame, the moments dragging on into eternity. And then it was over.

Another bad candy survived.

The screwy thing is, the Dutch eat this stuff like it's candy! Which... it is, I guess. Whatever. Anyway, apparently salt is one of the few natural resources Holland has, so that kind of explains why they use it so much, in a way, sorta. Regardless, DZ is unexcuseable. I imagine that the level of heart attacks in Holland must be through the roof. And unless you particularly want to become a part of that statistic, steer clear of DOUBLE ZOUT!