Archive for kf

Intelligent (really?) Design

February 4, 2011 brainmeats, kf 17 comments

I can’t be the only person who worries a whole lot when they meet someone who believes in Intelligent Design. Now, I don’t mean because a staunch refusal of science creeps me out (it does, though, just to be honest here) but simply because if these people can look at human bodies and go “Yup, this had to be designed by someone who meant it, who was incredibly genius and amazing” – well shit they aren’t seeing the same bodies I am.

We are astonishingly stupidly built creatures. If this was the result of “Intelligent Design” it just couldn’t have been very intelligent, is what I’m saying. Like maybe God is a school kid and we’re his science fair experiment, but he lost to Zeus who did an awesome volcano. Still, God’s parents hung Earth up on the fridge and told him how awesome he was.

When really, there are Lego sets that are built to last more than we are. Come on. Some folks hold up the eye as an “amazing design” and to them I … well to them I offer smacks with a shovel upside the head. Who builds a primary sense organ out of a wet bag of goo with no protection, staples it onto the front end of the chassis and then, and then, manages to put the retina on upside-down? This is a good thing?
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Goodnight moon. Forever.

October 27, 2010 kf, NY Life 6 comments

I haven’t always wanted to be a writer. For a time I had a totally different occupation in mind.

As a kid we would vacation in my Grandmother’s house out on Staten Island. Hey, it’s a shitty idea for a vacation but when it’s the best you can do, it’s what you end up doing. When you spend most of your year in Manhattan, Staten Island, in the 80s, was a different land. Looking back I can see it for what it really was: Jersey Lite. Still, you could see more stars at night and the moon would loom large.

One night in particular it loomed really large. I mean gigantic. Aided by the normal moon illusion plus an extra solstice moon and, well… everything combined in a big bowl of soup I like to call:

What the fuck! The moon is going to hit us!

I could not have been ten years old. Probably I was only nine. Outside, the night sky seemed pitch black because of the light of the moon. The moon that seemed to be at least five times bigger than I had ever seen it before in my life. It scared me. Seriously, yellow, giant moon freaked me right the fuck out.

I thought the moon would hit us. “Us” being “Earth,” not Staten Island in particular. That’s when I realized what I wanted to do with my life, assuming the moon didn’t attack us just then:

I would make bombs for a living.

That way, if the moon ever tried anything again, I could blow it right out of the sky. KA-BLAMMO! no more moon. Take that you lunar bastard! I would show the moon who was boss, by blowing it up. This new career was considered quite seriously. How things explode, how to launch rockets, the stuff that would best blow up moon rock – these were going to be what I studied.

I just refused to let the moon boss me around and sit up there, comfortably, knowing it might swoop down and attack us at any moment. The blasted thing could fall right out of the sky on top of us and then what? I watched Thundarr the Barbarian! The moon can be blown up and, yes, it leads to the destruction of most of civilization but also to the rise of ultra-science and magic and laser swords and Wookie knock-offs. For every downside there’s a silver lining, this one just happened to be awesome.

My parents didn’t have to know about my new job goals. My career path would remain one of a quieter source, at least until High School. That made sense to me at the time. The secret kept itself. Especially since the new goal didn’t last too long. But for a while there, I almost ended up with the most bitchin’ of business cards:

Adam P. Knave – Destroyer of Moons and Explosives Expert For Hire

I’m with the (Glee) band.

October 6, 2010 humor, kf, tv 12 comments

Dear Diary –

I can’t take it anymore. Look, when the school year started and Mister Schuester said that he would be forming a new glee club and wanted some of us in the band to help out, well I jumped at the chance. I totally did. I mean, I love playing bass.

At first everything was fine. We would get told when and where to show up and we would all play while the little group sang. Don’t get me wrong, they sucked at first, but it was still a blast.

But then it started. Mr. Shue came by and handed me a bracelet. I didn’t want to wear it, chunky black rubber isn’t my scene, but he told me it was required. Something about regulations for the band, as far as the school went. So I put it on.

Mr. Shue laughed and told me it went on my ankle. I put it around my ankle and couldn’t work out what was going on. I found out soon enough. Right in the middle of Math, too. Worse yet, a quiz.

So there I was, trying to remember how to find X and suddenly I was on the floor, trying to not swallow my tongue. The pain came from my ankle, and I looked at it. The rubber cuff blinked “Auditorium” steadily and pain came in waves. I tried to get the thing off but that cuff wouldn’t budge. Stuck fast. Locked, even.

So I went to the auditorium. I found it odd that my teacher, when I told her, crying, just said I should run and bring my bass, but what else could I do but listen, right? So I did and got there and the rest of the band stood around, instruments in hand, tear tracks on cheeks.

Seconds later those glee kids came in and started singing. We stood around, not knowing what was going on, but that scary giant kid glared at me so I started to play, just to be safe. They sang a number and left – never even saying thank you. Us band kids went back to class.

Well, and so, that’s how things went. We’d be in class and then suddenly WHAMMO! with the pain and tears until we all grabbed instruments and ran to a room where those glee kids were about to sing. The worst was the time they caught Sarah Miller in the bathroom. She came running down the hall, crying extra hard, soiled.

The third week we started to find little wet-naps waiting for us. They had a note, the first time: So you can wipe the tears away and look happy. Look. Happy.” We started to make sure to smile some after that. Always.

Each of us is given a book of songs to memorize every week. The problem is, Mr. Shue isn’t always sure which songs his glee kids will want to sing. Last week I had to memorize the sheet music to every song in the Top 5 from 1983-1985 – just in case.

We aren’t allowed to leave the school anymore, unless all the glee kids are gone before us. We also have to make sure we’re there, to a person, before they show up. One time, Bobby showed up late, he was sick, like with a really bad flu. Mr. Shue came to his house that night and just stood there. He didn’t say anything to Bobby’s parents even. Just stood there and stared at Bobby.

Bobby showed up extra early the next day.

And then yesterday, well, yesterday it was suggested, via letter, that perhaps we all felt too confined living with our families, being teenagers and all. That we might, perhaps, only as a suggestion mind you, enjoy bunking together in a new facility in the school’s basement.

None of us want to. I think we might not have a choice. They’ve been getting worse about us showing up early, regardless of what we’re doing. And we aren’t allowed to speak, or even really acknowledge the other students.

We just play, where ever and whenever the glee kids feel like it. I’m not sure that I blame them. They seem oblivious, they don’t even notice us anymore. We’re furniture.

Human furniture in Mister Schuester’s grand evil design.

I just don’t know what to do about it. Mary suggested armed revolution, and Tim thinks he’s going to just shove a flute up—OWOWOW, crap, have to get to the Library! Stupid glee club!

To be continued?

(PSST! Wanna read an interview I did with John Lock (The Glee Drummer)? It’s RIGHT HERE)

Some thoughts toward a strange idea.

September 28, 2010 brainmeats, humor, kf 2 comments

Some of my favorite songs end up used in ads. I bet that happens to you, too. Of course then there are the songs I hated the first time that come back to haunt us all in ads. I break them down into three categories:

1) There are the songs used in ads that you loved when you first heard them ages ago. Those can be horrible in a lot of ways because the domination of them threatens to create some sort of brain cloud that can kill you. It boils and brews and festers and then you hear the song on the radio, or a playlist and you twitch a bit. Just a bit. But it manages to make you really start to hate the product in question.

2) Songs you hate that appear in ads. Well those you didn’t like before and now end up hearing a whole fuckton and that isn’t better is it? No, fuck that.

3) Songs you never knew until an ad, but find that you like the song. Well now you have a problem, I mean you like the song and that’s awesome but it is forever linked with the ad. And if you don’t like the product… well come on, then you’re in a bind, aren’t you? I think that you may be.

Like, for example, let’s say there’s an ad on for interspecies erotica. Yes. And that ad, though the idea makes your skin crawl, has a kick-ass song. You love this song. You can’t stop humming it. Well, now, your friends who also never heard it before wonder why you’re humming the jingle to a donkey show. But you brush it off. “It’s a good song,” you say, “regardless of where it came from.”

So you buy the whole album and have a good time. Except whenever that one song comes on, you find that you think of donkey fucking. Not that you want to fuck donkeys but more that the subject is on your mind when you hear the song. It taunts you and infects you. Slowly you think of the band as “That donkey fucking band,” and it settles in your head heavily.

That drives me crazy. I’ve had perfectly good bands ruined by that sort of thing, so it really eats at me. Last night I was, actually and honestly, listening to a band that has a mental hook over to a product for me and it started to take over, the thoughts of the product did, and I would’ve turned it off. Except for the intervention of the cat.

No, really. I was sitting there and reaching for the mouse to flip to another song, and there was this blur and a Zip! Zoom! Crash! Bang! as the cat scampered by faster than thought. Which would have been find, except her butt was not quite faster than gravity. So as she sped by me in full on crazy mode, she knocked into my arm, sending my hand off the mouse as I clicked. Which flung the mouse off my desk. Where it landed face down and clicked itself a few times as it bounced around.

So the music is changing fast and the cat is running in giant loops around the apartment and I’m trying to work out what the holy fuck just happened. Meanwhile the cat circles back for another pass and I grab at the mouse, groping under my desk for it, and suddenly the music stops. The cat goes by, under the desk this time, and I set the mouse up and I can’t work out what is wrong. I spent ten minutes trying to figure out what came unplugged before I realized that somewhere in there the mouse managed to click on “mute” was all.

But the cat does this. It’s a thing with her. With most cats I’m fairly sure. She gets The Crazy. Which means she has to loop the entire apartment as fast as possible. She’s sort of like a shark, most days. She walks in constant loops of behavior and exact steps, but when she has The Crazy she becomes a shark on meth.

Sharks on meth don’t like it when you grab them and swoop them up into your arms and hug them like you want to merge them with your own body. Well, real sharks don’t like it, I imagine. My shark starts to purr and seems as if she’s calming down. But if you listen closer you’ll realize that purr is actually her engine revving, because when you put her down—Zip! Zoom! Crash! Bang!

Luckily she doesn’t have a theme song to be taken and processed into an ad. Because that would just be terrible. Speaking of terrible, I was at my mother’s place a week or two ago and she asked me to go through some cans in her cabinets. Just to look at the dates. Mind you, she asked me to grab anything older than X and so I did and then she sat and looked through them, as if I somehow couldn’t read. I mean really now. But that aside, it makes me wonder. Canned stuff can be unhealthy in a lot of ways with preservatives and all, but canning is important to survival.

Say there’s a zombie invasion, all right? Now canned goods are looking mighty attractive, right? But when do they expire? Should we not extend the shelf life of them with even more preservatives just in case? Imagine there are zombie everywhere and all you have is those peas but they expired and if you eat them you’ll get sick and slow down and die because the zombies would catch you?

And while they do, while they take a bite out of your fucking leg and all, your last thoughts will be, in order: I wish those peas hadn’t expired already and, man I liked the song they used in those ads. Fuck, now it’s stuck in my head…

It won’t be, for long.

Though maybe that’s why zombies are so angry all the time. They have bad ad jingles and songs stuck in their heads for all eternity and the only way to swap out songs is to eat someone else’s brain and get a new song from them.

I might be onto something, here.

Close encounters of the small kind

September 25, 2010 kf, NY Life No comments

The other day I was in Rite-Aid, just waiting on line to buy my stuff. Normal, ordinary thing. Behind me was a woman and child. The kid was small, stroller size, and looked happy. Gnawing on a toy or some such.

The line takes a while and from behind me I start to hear this happy babbling. The thing of it is that at first it sounded like it might be English. That close, almost word forming thing kids do right before they really start to nail language down. So, at first, I tried to make the rambling make sense.

Of course it didn’t make sense, it wouldn’t make sense and except to the little kiddo spewing it at high speeds it didn’t make sense to start with.

Which is when my brain decided it was Pentecostal. Yeah, a switch flipped in my head and suddenly I tagged the speechbabble as speaking in tongues. Now that made the entire setting a bit creepy. Suddenly I’m in line listening to this small child sound possessed by some higher force. Not cool. Not cool at all.

I turned to look at the kid and the child’s mother smiled at me, a bit nervously. I don’t know if it was a “Is this guy annoyed that my child makes noise” or “Shit, this guy is onto us, I should run out of here with demon child!” but it was one or the other.

I turned away quickly, flashing a tiny smile as I did. Never let them see you freak out about their possessed child. Never. That’s when the hell hounds come and shit starts falling out of the sky, like goats and stuff, not rain.

But the line still wasn’t moving, the child was still babbling and I was still standing there. I tried to ignore it, I generally have no problem with children being children. I don’t expect your child to never utter a sound in public – it’s a kid. I looked back again. The child looked to be, and I know this can’t be true, but the kid looked to be going on and chittering away with half-words without moving her mouth.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

I gave the mother a smile as calmly as I could and turned away again, trying to will the line to move faster. Man, that was creepy. Just creepy. Demon children, my neighborhood has at least one.

And there’s a chance, of course, that the mother of that child is reading this. And hey, if that bearded guy looked nervous in front of you at Rite-Aid the other day – nothing personal I’m sure you’re awesome and your child is amazing. Don’t possess my and rend my soul or anything, ok? Thanks.

…hide me.

Transformers now less than meets the eye.

July 12, 2010 kf, wtf?! 3 comments

I have issues with Transformers and these are fairly well documented. but the other day, at Target, I found a new reason to hate on these things.

I was browsing the toy aisle, like one does at a Target, just to see what the kids are playing with these days, what cartoons and movies were hot (Good way to tell. Seriously. Go to a toy aisle. If a movie is hot for kids the toys are all over.) and also if there are any toys I would like to buy. I never actually do buy them, but I have a list of toys, in my head, that I would theoretically buy if I were letting myself buy toys these days.

Still, so yes, Transformers. There are these Hot Wheels Transformers toys that… holy shit, guys, holy fucking shit. “Look at the bottom of the car for robot” the package says and sure enough on the bottom of the car is a little carved out and painted robot. Flat. No transforming. Just a robot painted on the bottom of the car. That’s all you get.

Last I knew these fucking things were called Transformers not “Stand Your Car On The Tailpipe And Look Into A World Of Broken Dreams And Shattered Hopes Because We Just Painted a Picture Of A Robot”-ers. (Note, SYCOTTALIAWOBDASHBWJPAPOAR’ers may not be available at all stores, we hope. Also you can call them SHITFORMERS for short.) I mean they’re not even trying anymore. This isn’t a transformer. It doesn’t transform in any way at all. None. It’s a car. With a painting on the bottom. What kind of ass hole gives a kid a toy car with a robot painted on the bottom and says it’s a Transformer?

They also had Transformers: Gravity Bots. I was initially disappointed because these were not robots that transformed into esoteric representations of the force of gravity. No, my dreams of collecting “Transformers – The Four Forces” were shattered. These are really shitty Transformers that “use gravity to Transform!” Which means they are shitty looking robots, no really they are lumps of plastic that don’t move and don’t resemble a robot or the vehicle they are supposed to be, with one or two points of “transforming.” When you drop them, those two bits of motion move. And it hits the ground “transformed.”

No, really that’s it. They made them weighted so that when you dropped them a hinge moves a bit. That’s the big gimmick. You drop them.

As stupid as they were does anyone else remember when Transformers actually, you know, transformed? What happened there? I thought toys were supposed to get cooler. I mean a lot of toys did. And yet Transformers went backwards.

Except for Ejector. Ejector is a toaster. No, seriously you can buy this thing. It’s a transformer that turns into a tiny toaster. And you know how they all have stats on the back, like Strength and Stamina and All? Well Ejector has the lowest stats ever except for Bravery. That’s maxed out. Because, yes, he is the Brave Little Toaster. And that rocks. But aside from that, man these toys have gone to shit.

Guh-m.

July 11, 2010 humor, kf, NY Life 3 comments

Remember when people would show what the future would look like and they would be all “And our food will come in handy tablets!” as if any one wanted to trade the joy of eating some fresh carrots or turkey or whatever for swallowing a Food Pill?

I never really understood the appeal, but it sunk into my brain anyway. In the future food will devolve into Chiclets. This is what I learned. All food will simply be fucking Chiclets. Not exciting, not impressive but there you go. I have alternately feared and waited for the future to arrive. While in Target today I saw that it had.

Walking down an aisle I spied those little bins of mints. You know the ones, they’re these little plastic tubs of mint and such that are impossible to stick in a pocket, unless you like raves, and open with a tiny clicking flap. Yeah, those.

Except they had one with Juicy Fruit in it. Now, I may not like gum, but I know Juicy Fruit. It comes in sticks. Sticks of gum. Like in baseball card packs. Strange sticks of gun that are, these days, pee colored. The flavor lasts all of 5.2 seconds and then you’re left with this pee wad of gum in your mouth and a bunch of self-loathing.

Except now it comes in tablets. That’s the fucking future, right there, it is! Holy shit, who would’ve thought that Juicy Fruit would be my demarcation line to the future. I can only imagine, having seen these, that in other aisles there were tablets of roast beef, prunes and creamed corn. There had to be. It’s the future, motherfuckers!

So, upon seeing this little bucket of Flash Gordon’s world come to life, I did what we all knew I would have to do: I bought it. Yes, this is kind of the Mentos thing again. Shut up.

So let’s see. The tablets are white, not pee colored, which is a step up. The thing is about twice the length of a Chiclet. The flavor tastes much like Juicy Fruit should taste and, oddly, lasts a bit longer. Like into the 30 or 40 second range. Though it does have a bizarre chemically tingly undertone to it. I choose to think of this as the side-effect of the shrinking and encapsulating ray.

Because they obviously took normal Juicy Fruit and used a shrinking and encapsulating ray to get it to Chiclet form and size. Obviously. Duh?

So they aren’t bad, but you would have to chew at least three of these to get the same approximate chewmass of a normal stick of Juicy Fruit. Chewmass is the size of wet pee colored gum wad when you… oh you get it.

And man that chemically aftertaste doesn’t fade. It’s sort of like eating plastic and depression. Ah well. I promised that if I got these and wrote about them I would also eat them all. Maybe if I shove them all in my face at once…

…no, probably not.

…but maybe…

Why do I do this to myself? It’s like I want to punish myself by licking chemicals. That should be a Super Hero origin. Or villain, I suppose. Bleh.

Things I can’t remember right.

July 10, 2010 brainmeats, kf No comments

There are certain lists of things that I always get confused on in my head. Specifically these tend to be lists of seven items (and in one case 8 or 9 depending on how you decide it): The Seven Deadly Sins (wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony), The Seven Dwarves (Bashful, Doc, Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy and Sneezy) Gaiman’s Endless (Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Despair, Desire and Delirium) and Santa’s reindeer (Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, Blitzen (which is 8) and sometimes Rudolph (makes 9).

So when I’m asked to name any one set of those lists it ends up like this:

“Hey man, what are the seven dwarves, again?” a friend will ask me. Why they ask me – well I used to wonder and then I realized it was because I fuck it up.

“Oh, sit. Uhm. Dopey… Grumpy, Sleepy, Prancer, Dasher Destiny and Sloth? No that’s not right. Fuck! It’s, uhhh, Doc, I forgot Doc before. So Doc, Bashful, Happy, Cupid, Desire, Gluttony and Blitzen? Damn it! No. Grumpy. Wait, that’s eight. There were only seven dwarves, right? So it can’t be… Gluttony wasn’t a dwarf. Uhm. So that leaves Doc, Grumpy, I don’t want to forget Grumpy, Comet, Desire, Envy, Sneezy and… Prancer? Fuck! No, no, no. Wait, all right, let me backtrack. I’ll name the reindeer and those can’t be dwarves! All right! Dancer, Prancer, Bashful, Dream, Lust, Happy, Despair and Rudolph. All right so none of those can… be… dwarves… wait, this is all wrong isn’t it?”

And then my friend laughs at me. But I can’t help it. They’re all very similar lists. And there should be a reindeer named Despair. He was the one who, when they couldn’t see to pull Santa, left to go cut himself and cry in a corner. But regardless, I just can’t get them straight. I’ve tried mnemonics to remember them, even!

Like, if I want to remember the dwarves I would memorize the following sentence:

Bob Decapitated Dan – Growling, He Serial Slashed.

But they never worked for me. Instead I just get confused, every damn time. Dwarves and reindeer and sins and Endless. Oh my.

The CMSCR

June 29, 2010 humor, kf, news 3 comments

So you all remember the Magical Penis Thieves right? Harper’s did a great story on it in 2008, for those who don’t recall. I’ll quote a bit here for you:

No one is entirely sure when magical penis loss first came to Africa. One early incident was recounted by Dr. Sunday Ilechukwu, a psychiatrist, in a letter some years ago to the Transcultural Psychiatric Review. In 1975, while posted in Kaduna, in the north of Nigeria, Dr. Ilechukwu was sitting in his office when a policeman escorted in two men and asked for a medical assessment. One of the men had accused the other of making his penis disappear. This had caused a major disturbance in the street. As Ilechukwu tells it, the victim stared straight ahead during the examination, after which the doctor pronounced him normal. “Exclaiming,” Ilechukwu wrote, “the patient looked down at his groin for the first time, suggesting that the genitals had just reappeared.”

So you know. Magical junk removers. It’s a concept.

Fears of magical penis loss were not limited to the Orient. The Malleus Maleficarum, medieval Europeans’ primary guidebook to witches and their ways, warned that witches could cause one’s membrum virile to vanish, and indeed several chapters were dedicated to this topic. Likewise the Compendium Maleficarum warned that witches had many ways to affect one’s potency, the seventh of which included “a retraction, hiding or actual removal of the male genitals.” (This could be either a temporary or a permanent condition.) Even in the 1960s, there were reports of Italian migrant workers in Switzerland panicking over a loss of virility caused by witchcraft.

And then I started to think. Recently, I mean, not back in 2008. Actually I don’t think I thought anything in all of 2008, but I could be wrong. Regardless, I started to think, recently, that the Magical Penis Thieves have counterparts in America. Specifically Hollywood.

I’m talking, of course, about the Magical Tit Fairies. You know them. All of the actresses who are surprised: “I didn’t get breast implants!” and yet they’ve suddenly gone from a small B to more Fs than you can shake a Baldwin at. Maybe they’re telling the truth. You know, in the same way the victims of penis theft are.

Anyway, once I realized that the Magical Penis Thieves had counterparts in the Magical Tit Fairies I then had to wonder where they came from, where they live – what would their natural environment be? Then I realized – Canada.

Yup. Ottawa maybe. Land of the Magical Penis Thieves and Magical Tit Fairies. A magical land, indeed. They can go there and relax, frolicking with their excess tits and wangs. It’s a wonderful place or mystery, the Canadian Magical Sexual Characteristic Reserve. The CMSCR, or Titwang for short, is the sort of place you expect them to erect (no pun intended) a theme park. But they never will. Because they need to keep their existence a secret from the rest of the world.

That doesn’t really matter. What matters here is that if you wind up one day with more, or less, of something along those lines – it’s in Canada. Go get it back.

Man, the tourist board is gonna love me. The “Reason for visit” field on customs forms is gonna turn epic.

No, really, go to Canada. Get your junk back – or return some junk. Whatever. Go for it. It’ll be fiiiine. Just go to a customs agent and tell them you know what they’re up to and that you need to go to Titwang this instant. Titwang. Repeat it until he helps you. This way he’ll know you know and will let you through.

Titwang.

Pop-tarts.

June 26, 2010 brainmeats, kf 4 comments

I don’t think I’m the target market for Pop-tarts. Don’t get me wrong, there are times I enjoy the freakish things, but overall they just ain’t my thing. They’re just kind of there.

I mean I know you’re supposed to heat them and all but for me they fall under the category of “shit you eat when you’re on the run.” You don’t stop and heat them. If you have time to heat a Pop-tart you have time to eat something other than a Pop-tart, is all I’m saying. So you grab a box. And you look at it. Box art all filled with joy and excitement proclaiming these to be awesome breakfast toaster pastries.

Wait a motherfucking second. PASTRY? This thing thinks it’s a pastry? My dead grandmother is closer to pastry than this thing is. It’s true, we had her remains turned into a cheese danish.

That’s not true at all.

That you know of.

The fact remains, though, that this shitstorm isn’t a pastry. I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t pastry. Rice cakes are closer to pastry.

But, let’s go ahead and say you want a Pop-tart. So you grab the thing and unwrap it from the nuclear fallout foil wrapping and… what? I wanted one Pop-tart, not two. What the shit? Why can’t a brother have just one Pop-tart? Who came up with the two Tart rule? Looking at the box a serving size is one Tart. Not two. One. So they’re fucking with you. You can’t actually eat them according to the serving size unless you let one go stale, or at least have it live outside of its spacesuit. What the camel-feltching bullcrap is that about?

So fine, you decide to have two of these wretched planks of sustenance. Fine. They have frosting on the top with “sprinkles.” If this is someone’s idea of what a sprinkle is I feel sorry for the world. This isn’t a sprinkle. This is, at best, what happens when a sprinkle takes a shit. Ploop, little deformed, pencil-point sized sprinkle-shit. Right on your Pop-tart.

Then you have the crust. It tastes like the box. If they wrapped the box in shiny stuff you could eat it and, except for the lack of sprinkle-shits on it, not really notice. But wait, you say, what about the filling? Well what about it? Extruded chemical vomit. Strawberry. Blueberry. The Blackberry work makes me use is closer to a real berry product than this hot mess. This fancy-colored slime wouldn’t know a berry if one came up and gave it head.

The first time in my life I ever had a Pop-tart I was asked what it tasted like. You know what my answer was?

“SADNESS.”

Sadness-flavored breakfast “toaster pastries.”

And you people wonder why my normal breakfast consists of coffee, rage, cold gruel and head butting a wall until I pass back out until the afternoon. Seriously.

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