Max Sticks: Proof that either God is not real, or does not love us.

Mozza-HELL-a sticks.

I have food trust issues. Some people accuse me of being a germophobe, or being a bit obsessive-compulsive when it comes to sharing (or not sharing) food with others. I don’t like to sample people’s food when they offer it to me, I frequently avoid eating dinner at other people’s homes, and if I share my food, or someone touches it, it’s now theirs. Why is that? I can’t say for certain. But I can definitely point to “Max Sticks” as one of the reasons.

For the uninitiated, Max Sticks are essentially big mozzarella sticks that were endured by many Generation Z pupils in elementary schools across the United States during lunch time. People might not call them “Max Sticks,” as I grew up in Albuquerque, but they certainly will recognize them on sight. To call them mozzarella sticks is an insult to the culinary craft, which is saying something, considering the mediocrity of mozzarella sticks.

Shout-out to the people who have almost died swallowing these fried cheesy chumps.

The edibility factor of a Max Stick depends on its preparation; at best, it’s an overcooked doughy mess with hard chunks of mozzarella cheese inside that can be dipped in cheap marinara sauce, served at a lukewarm temperature. But at worst, it can be a…