13 Old School Snacks You Won't Find In Vending Machines Anymore

Buckle in, travelers, we're cranking open the neon-humming door of the Takeout Time Machine. Its buttons are sticky with soda pop syrup, and inside it hums the faint, sugary static of days gone by. Today's destination is the Vending Machine Graveyard, where ghosts of the best vending machine snacks from our youth still rattle in their coils.

In this time-traveling contraption, you can still hear the clunk of a plastic bottle dropping into the vending machine tray. For a second, the world still tastes like Minute Maid grape soda and the questionable cafeteria freedom to drink yourself into a deep purple, corn syrup-induced coma. Let this be a warning to you: You must tread carefully. Instead of vending delicious, sweet and savory treats wrapped in cellophane, this machine shoots out long-forgotten shells of our once-adored snack soulmates. In place of an ingredients list, we find epitaphs — tiny tributes to beloved snacks taken from this world too soon. How we grieve them still.

So, bow your head in reverence as we share moments of silence, in remembrance of snacks that felt like family, and whose absence leaves a gaping hole in our hearts ... and tummies. Grab your quarters, and away we go.

Once upon a pizza-grease-stained Friday night, there was no holier trinity than a bag of Keebler Pizzarias, a can of grape soda, and comfy spot in front of the television to watch "TGIF." Born in 1991, these chips weren't just pizza-flavored; they were literally made from real pizza dough and baked to a crunch that could shatter all sense of restraint. Each triangle carried a liberal dusting of Italian seasoning, Parmesan, and pure, peppery pizzeria magic.

When Keebler's new owners cleaned house in the late '90s, these legends were tossed into the oven of oblivion. By 2000, they'd vanished from grocery stores and vending machine compartments, leaving fans no recourse but to channel their grief into Facebook groups and Reddit threads. Thousands of grief-riddled devotees still campaign for Pizzarias' resurrection, shouting their shared lament into the algorithmic void. "These were the OG's of pizza chips!" cried one TikTok user. 

Their plea for a reincarnation may remain unanswered, but somewhere, deep in the vending afterlife, you swear you can still smell their peppery ghost of greatness like a faint, taunting perfume. Keebler Pizzarias' Time Machine epitaph reads, "Gone in a Puff of Parmesan," and slices right through the heart.

Bart Simpson warned us not to touch his Butterfinger BB's, and these days, we couldn't even if we wanted to. Introduced in 1992, BB's became an instant vending machine superstar. The commercial campaign, featuring Bart Simpson himself, nailed it, with its snarky veiled threat: "Nobody better lay a finger on my Butterfinger BB's." We wager that one still lives rent-free in your head.

Then came the heartbreak. Without warning, our beloved BB's went M.I.A. Nestlé (later Ferrero) decided to streamline, leaving millions of us standing at the vending machine window, quarters in hand, trembling in disbelief and bordering on hangry rage. To be fair, that was the first stage of grief in action (if we are honest, many of us have never graduated past denial).

To this day, social media still lights up with BB's ghost. Reddit is basically a BB's support group filled with grown adults whimpering to their screens about bringing them back. An official petition was launched on Change.org to address the collective outrage, a "Bites" version was introduced, but they couldn't fill the void ... wrong crunch, wrong vibe. Butterfinger BB's epitaph reads, "The Crispety-Crunchety-Gone-Too-Soon Snack," and when they left, they took a little sweetness of our childhood with them.

Born from Coca-Cola's attempt to mingle with the alternative youth crowd, Fruitopia was less a drink and more a trendy, pseudo-movement that gained a cult-like following. The bottles carried fruity flavor names like "Strawberry Passion Awareness" and "Citrus Consciousness," each one sounding like some loosey-goosey poetry slam in liquid form.

The branding was bold, maybe even a bit delulu. It didn't just claim to quench thirst, but also promised enlightenment, a confident vow splashed across its psychedelic labels in dripping fonts that could've been ripped straight off a rave flyer. The TV ads featured kaleidoscopic animation, poetry, and trippy synth beats composed by the likes of Kate Bush and the Cocteau Twins. Fruitopia's commercial efforts wanted you to believe that drinking it could unlock your higher self (or at least earn you higher cool points in the cafeteria).

Vending machines devoted to Fruitopia were like shrines; its message of Nirvana hummed in schools, malls, and roller rinks near and far. Alas, manmade utopia is merely a construct, and by the early 2000s, this elysian dream dissolved into sticky legend. Fruitopia's epitaph reads, "No Nirvana. All apologies."

Launched in 1989, PB Max was a thick, brick-shaped mash-up of crunchy, whole-grain cookie base, creamy peanut-butter dome, and a full coat of rich milk chocolate. The school vending machines that stocked it held a hot commodity. When PB Max was discontinued after just a few years, people got pressed.

The wildest part? Despite the popularity, Mars killed its own hit. The story went that the company's founding family famously disliked peanut butter, so PB Max was discontinued despite allegedly earning nearly $50 million in its short lifespan. There was no scandal and no sales slump, just a supposed aristocratic peanut-butter prejudice that pried those precious PB Max's from our white-knuckled fists.

Nostalgic users on Reddit still mourn it, and now, the bar lives on in online bootleg recipe videos. PB Max is undoubtedly the patron saint of lost potential, sitting on a vending machine rack, waiting for that next dollar bill that will never come. Its epithet reads, "PB Maxed, out. Flavorism is bad."

Bonkers not only promised flavor, it practically assaulted you with it. No, really, the product planned to pulverize you with its punch of flavor. Introduced by Nabisco in 1983, each chewy Bonkers cube hid a core of syrupy fruit filling. Bite in, and boom! Your whole mouth lit up. The commercials showed people literally getting flattened by giant fruit. It wasn't subtle.

That said, the slapstick schtick hits its mark, and kids quite literally ate it up. We young'uns adored the chaos and irreverence of Bonkers' brand identity. Flavors of cherry, grape, watermelon, orange, and chocolate were packed in vibrant, shiny wrappers that grabbed attention, and all the change we could spare from our Velcro wallets was intended for their purchase. 

Then came the quiet fade-out. Sometime around the mid-'90s, Bonkers were gone. Even in our favorite must-visit candy stores across each state, you won't find these crazy candies.Online, Bonkers stans still trade memories and vintage ads. Their epitaph reads, "Being Bonkers in the afterlife."

Before the Keebler elves were churning out Fudge Stripes on the factory line, they dabbled in mystery. Remember Magic Middles, those shortbread cookies with an mmm-worthy, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate heart? You'd bite through the buttery shell and instantly get hit with a gush of soft chocolate filling. Are your eyes rolling back in your head at the recollection, too?

The bold name was quite a moniker to live up to, but somehow these magic-bellied biscuits cast a spell on us all. They even felt kind of fancy in a vending machine among more nondescript or run-of-the-mill chocolate candy bars and chips, like some contraband from a patisserie rather than an offering from the cafeteria, school corridor, or commissary. When Magic Middles were involved, lunch table trades could get heated — we're talking high-stakes, primo swaps, where it took two bags of chips and a Capri Sun to barely cover one pack.

Then Keebler's ownership changed hands in the mid-'90s. Before long, the magic was lost. The brand discontinued Magic Middles sometime between 2011 and 2012. Suffice it to say, we still miss them. Magic Middles' epitaph reads, "Cookies with dark (chocolate) secrets they took to the grave."

Its juice boxes with sippy straws are still a hit in lunch boxes, but back in the day, Minute Maid soda was the unsung hero of rec-center vending machines. Minute Maid rolled out the sodas in the early '80s, with flavors including orange, lemon-lime, fruit punch, and the G.O.A.T. (at least in our humble opinion), grape. They had just the right fizz to sting your tongue, and enough pigment to stain your smile. Purple kisser, anyone?

Then, with little fanfare, they vanished. Minutes turned to hours, then days, and now years, with no second round for these fan-favorite pop stars. Turns out, Coca-Cola folded the line into other brands around 2005, and that legendary grape fizz we went crazy over fell flat. One r/Soda subreddit reads like a communal ode to a lost loved one, filled with near-romantic reveries recalling good times spent sipping these O.G.s. Many of us remember that first Minute Maid can from the vending machine, the metal so cold it almost glued to your fingers.

In our time-traveling vending graveyard, Minute Maid soda still chills behind the glass, waiting for another quarter and a kid fresh off the court. Its epitaph reads: "See you on the sip side!" and we sure hope it's right.

Ah, SnackWell's. The cookie brand that thought it could save America from itself. Born in the fat-free craze of the early '90s, these little green-boxed miracles promised health-conscious consumers a sinful taste of indulgence without the accompanying guilt. These "better-for-you" snacks assured us that we could "Eat well, snack well" as the brand's slogan suggested. Moms believed it. Kiddies raided the boxes, because a cookie's a cookie when you're a growing tween and there's a sweet treat set before you.

Devil's Food Cookie Cake was the crown jewel of the SnackWell's dynasty. A soft, spongy cake cloaked in glossy faux-chocolate, it was perfectly engineered to make you (almost) forget what real milk fat tasted like — for a while. These devilish, good-for-you-adjacent cookie cakes came out in 1992 and even made it into vending machines. The single-serving pack was the virtuous choice.

In 2022, we said good riddance to SnackWell's entire product line, and the original Devil's Food packs went to diet heaven. In the vending machine afterlife, they're probably still insisting they're good for you, while the real cookies snicker nearby. Their epitaph? "Screw it, just eat the damn cookies."

When one thinks of 1980s food fads that should stay in the past, some may immediately point to these juicy nuggets. If you remember these, your dentist definitely remembers you. Liquid-centered soda gum was a sickening stroke of quasi-candy genius from Amurol, a division of the Wrigley company. Chewy shells bursting with oozing syrup that actually tasted like soda? What '80s kid could resist? And not just any generic soda, but the big brand names. The cool kids, like A&W Root Beer, Dr Pepper, and 7Up.

As for the chewing experience? One bite and squirt! A sugary geyser of full-on flavor literally burst onto your tongue. You'd panic and try to chew faster to contain the explosion between giggles so manic they made your belly hurt. Yet we kept coming back for more because who doesn't get joy from ridiculousness and eccentricities, like snacks that toe that dangerous line between yum and yuck?

These gums were a staple of corner stores and vending machines that dared to be fun. They came in shiny wrappers that looked vaguely futuristic, as if they were invented in a mad scientist's lab. And honestly? We wouldn't be surprised if they were. It's unclear exactly when Amurol discontinued them, but by the '90s, the fad fizzled. Liquid-center soda bubble gum's epitaph reads, "Go on, pop off." We can picture them up in the vending machine afterworld, little chewy grenades of joy waiting to ooze again.

Arguably the holy grail of vending machine pretzels, Rold Gold Honey Mustard Tiny Twists were an intriguing mix of tangy and sweet, with a little bit of spice just on the tail-end of each twisty bite. These cult favorites were just abrasive enough to make your tongue tingle at the taste, but not be torn up about it.

The pretzels hit shelves in the early '90s and became a hit. That curious combo of sharp mustard and honey glaze was weirdly addictive. Crunch, tang, sweet, repeat. A handful was perfect with a Mountain Dew as a mid-bus-ride miracle snack. And before you think that these were passed around lunch tables, don't get it twisted. You didn't share these.

One day, decades later, they were gone. Vending machines got blander overnight, forced to return to naked pretzels, with only tiny flecks of salt to hide their shame. The fans? They went feral. Petitions popped up begging to bring them back. They haven't returned. Their epitaph? "Twas knot to be."

Few snacks burned brighter, or faded away faster, than WOW! Chips. Marketed as a revolutionary "fat-free" chip alternative when introduced in 1998, WOW! Lay's, Doritos, and Ruffles were made with Olestra. At the time, Olestra was being touted as a miracle fat substitute, and we all fell head over heels in love. There was only one catch: these snacks did not love us back. We'll come back to that.

School vending machines proudly stocked them, the principal and PTA moms ate them while bragging about healthy options for kids. For a short time, WOW! chips were a win. Only, there was one mistake we all made — a big one. We failed to read the fine print. "Olestra may cause abdominal cramping and loose stools," it read.

The side effects? Explosive. The fallout was swift, and the fat-free chip slinked into oblivion soon after. Following the big blowout (sorry, had to), one would assume these crunchy cramp-inducers would join the ranks of discontinued Lay's Chips literally no one wants to see again. Not so fast. Since that scandal, some consumers still stubbornly stand by their affection for the snacks. Still, for WOW!, demise was imminent, and the line was axed in 2004. Their epitaph reads, "Our reputation is doo-doo."

You couldn't fool us, Mars. Kudos may have looked like a granola bar, but we knew it was really dessert in disguise, and no one was complaining. These bars had a unique, crispy cereal base, chocolate drizzle, and candy bits packed on top. The layered textures of a Kudos bar gave you the impression you were eating something a bit more substantial than you actually were. Kudos were what moms bought when they wanted to bring healthy snacks into the house, and what kids devoured because, well, M&Ms and chocolate drizzle (duh).

The '80s and '90s vending scene thrived on them. Eating a Kudos bar while waiting for your mom in the school parking lot after soccer practice made you feel like you were getting away with something, like having dessert before dinner. For a time, Kudos was king.

As "healthy" snack bars evolved into oat slabs on steroids and protein logs packed with more grams than any 9-year-old had any business ingesting, Kudos began to look a little scrawny in comparison. By 2017, the brand had officially lost its charm and faded out quietly. All that remains now is an epitaph reading, "Finally at peace with my true identity: a closeted candy bar."

When asked which foods make you the most nostalgic, some people go waaay back into their memory bank and conjure up a niche snack most of us don't remember. Exhibit A: the Banana Flip. Consisting of a soft yellow half-moon of cake stuffed with the fluffiest banana cream you can imagine, these snacks were made by Nickles Bakery in Ohio and not sold nationwide. While Hostess and Dolly Madison tried their own versions out, none hit the same. Nickles' Flips would show up in regional vending machines, gas stations, and school canteens, vanishing the minute someone spotted them.

Production stopped in the early 2000s, and fans long for them to this day. Facebook groups and snack nostalgia pages still pay their respects to the beloved handheld banana cakes. Gone from vending machines, they float at the top shelf forever, golden and glowing, waiting for one last flip. The final words of its epitaph? "Here lie our beloved BF(F)s. You will be missed, friends."