Trust me, I've had enough gummi bears to know. Occasionally there is a mutant in the bag.
For a long time, I was saving a yellow lemon bear with a stunning red streak inside it. I wanted to take a picture, but I didn't get around to it, and eventually the bear turned opaque, crystallized when all its hideous sugars and high-fructose corn syrup were oxidized by the air.
Well, I went off gummi bears for seven whole days while I experienced a restricted diet last week, and it only took me — um — is today still Monday? OK, about eight hours until I opened up a sack o' teddies. (I don't do it often, but trust me, there was deep sugar hunger.)
And here's what came out. A clone train.
Ew. I've heard you don't really want to see how sausage is made because the gruesome reality will sicken you. That's not a problem for me because I know who my sausage makers are (and sometimes they're me) — voilà: unsickening, nay, delicious sausage.
But today. Gummi bratwurst? Hold the casing, but still...
Meaning I don't really want to know how gummi bears are made. I want to continue believing they are sprinkled out of happy clouds, raining down in all their rainbow colors right into the cellophane bags.
I don't want to think they are extruded, brat-style, or in whatever method they happened to end up in this obscene daisy chain.
If you are looking for a moral to this story, you are out of luck.