Ah, Forks. A small logging town on the Olympic Peninsula, remote, unknown, secret. That is, of course, until Stephanie Meyer wrote the infamous Twilight Series.
I swear, it's everywhere. There is no escape from the horror of Sparklepires. Port Angeles has had similar treatment, but that's for another node.
I made a recent trip to Forks a few months ago to get away from it all, and let me tell you, it was positivley swarming. With them. I didn't even expect it. I knew about Twilight, but i didn't know the sheer magnitude of its fanbase.
In fact, as I was driving up there, I came across a rather beaten up looking 7/11 (or some other kind of Quik-E Mart), I saw on the rusty billboard that they sold burgers. Not just any burgers, Bella Burgers. The horror.
Once I reached my destination, I realized that over half of the people there were either a)Twihards or b) Parents and Siblings of Twihards who had been forced to come here.
There was merchandise everywhere. Cardboard cut-out Edwards from the movies, sparkly t-shirts proclaiming that "Edward Can Kick Lestat's Ass", make-up kits, backpacks, socks, legwarmers, blow-up dolls and dildos. (Maybe not the last two . . . but dammit, you get my point!) Well, this is completley unnacceptable. Out of everything Meyer could have chosen, she chose something that was actually part of my life.
If I were a fan or even a casual reader, I probably would have been flattered. But I detest the damn things, so it's really quite insulting.