BY TESS TICKLES
Before the internet, before airbrushed silicone and OnlyFans subscriptions, there was one name — one glorious, salty, wax-papered name — that made American mouths water and every ten-year-old boy giggle like he just saw cleavage on a test pattern.
Big Tits Potato Chips.
Yes, dear reader. That wasn’t a fever dream. That was a real goddamn product. A humble bag of chips, cooked in lard and fried in freedom, sold out of country stores across the South during the golden era of pre-war horniness and post-depression snacking. And the legend behind the bag? None other than one Titus “Big Tits” Tart — a man whose name alone could short-circuit a Baptist.
THE MAN, THE MYTH, THE TITS
Born in Dunn, North Carolina sometime between a moonshine run and a barn raising, Titus Tart was a simple man with a simple dream: grow potatoes, fry ‘em, and sell them to whoever had a nickel and no cholesterol concerns. But Titus wasn’t your average tuber tycoon. He had, according to local lore, an unusually large chest for a man. A pair of naturals, the townsfolk said. Hooter Hillocks. North Carolina’s own twin peaks.
Whether they were man-boobs, muscle, or just God’s cruel joke, no one really knows. What we do know is that when he started slapping his nickname — Big Tits — on wax-paper bags of lard-fried potato chips, the South took notice. So did horny schoolboys, bored housewives, and at least one traveling vacuum salesman who reportedly bought twelve bags, sight unseen, just to ask the clerk, “Are they real?”
SNACKING WITH SHAME (AND JOY)
Let’s be clear: there was nothing pornographic about the chips themselves. No naked ladies, no curvaceous cartoons, no hidden dicks in the barcode. Just a plain wax bag, bold letters reading “BIG TITS POTATO CHIPS,” and usually a sepia-toned image of old Titus himself — looking like a cross between Wilford Brimley and someone who’d been kicked out of the Masons for “excessive shirtlessness.”
But the name alone made every bag feel like contraband. Moms would refuse to pack them in school lunches. Dads would sneak them into their lunch pails. Preachers condemned them from the pulpit, then munched on them behind the church while slapping their own flat chests in disappointment.
And yet… they were delicious. Cooked in real pig lard. Salted like the rim of a working man’s margarita. No air, no preservatives, no low-fat bullshit. Just crunch, grease, and the forbidden thrill of saying the word “tits” in public under the guise of hunger.
A LEGACY WORTH LICKING YOUR FINGERS FOR
Somewhere in the early ’50s, Big Tits Potato Chips faded out — maybe the name got too hot, maybe health codes started asking questions, or maybe poor Titus just couldn’t keep his bags up in a world of rising standards and tighter labels. There are rumors of a cease-and-desist from a church consortium. Others say the military tried to requisition the name for morale purposes and Titus told them to shove it up their Eisenhower.
Today, all that remains are a few tattered bags — preserved by greasy-fingered collectors and eBay cowboys. New old stock, wax-lined and untouched by the modern hand. A few mint-condition bags have sold for hundreds. Some even keep them sealed, afraid to break the spell, or taste potato chip perfection that’s long since turned to ash.
But here at SCREW, we believe in honoring the filth that built us. And make no mistake — Big Tits Potato Chips are part of that glorious, tit-shaped foundation. It’s not just a snack. It’s an American artifact. A greasy-fisted reminder that this country once had the balls to put the word “tits” on a food product and sell it to minors.
IN CONCLUSION: TASTE THE TITS
In a world where everything is branded to death, sanitized, SEO’d and stripped of soul, we look back at Big Tits Potato Chips with reverent, lustful awe.
We didn’t deserve Titus Tart. We still don’t. But we thank him — for feeding us, for shocking us, and for proving once and for all that some tits are meant to be eaten.
So, if you happen to see a vintage Big Tits bag on eBay, or at a garage sale or Goodwill, buy it, frame it, and hang it next to the Declaration of Independence where it belongs.
—TT
