Pop-Tarts

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 freakish 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 being 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 being 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 I have just one Pop-Tart? Who came up with the two-Tart rule? According to 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 risk it living outside of its spacesuit.

So fine, you decide to have two of these wretched planks of sustenance. That’s fine. They have frosting on the top with “sprinkles.”

If this is someone’s idea of what a sprinkle is, then I feel sorry for their sad little 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 that my 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.”