I am addicted to them. I carry at least three silver packs of them everywhere I go. I don’t just like them or love them; I exist on them. Some people like steak or lobster or crab cakes. Some could eat shrimp until they die. I like frosted brown sugar and cinnamon Pop-Tarts. Pop-Tarts are perfect food. I don’t care what their tagline is or what their advertising says; it’s irrelevant to me. They are doughy heroin, toaster crack; I have a Pop-Tart monkey on my back.
I have a Pop-Tart every morning. I down one during the day. I chomp one at night. I have carried them onto planes, into movies, into church. My wife gave me a protector for them. I eat them in meetings, at my desk, in bed, in the shower, mowing the yard, driving, it doesn’t matter; they are portable and tasty and give me a feeling like the one some people attribute to that nicotine hit from the first cigarette in the morning. I can’t think of one single thing I haven’t done while eating a Pop-Tart. They are that good. The brown rectangle never disappoints. I eat at least three a day and have for 30 years. No joke. Count them; that’s 10,950 Pop-Tarts since 1977. I didn’t keep track before then.
I used to eat them with warm Mountain Dew; now I like iced Cherry Coke with my fix. I stick to my one flavor too: Frosted Brown Sugar Cinnamon. Better than fava beans with a little Chianti, fafafafafafa.
It is a joke to people who know me. It’s no joke to me. Pop-Tarts are serious business. I think Kellogg’s should give me a lifetime achievement award — something for my loyal consumerism, my passionate investment. I’d say a year’s supply for me would be a nice gesture. But if they did that, their profits would drop, since I am clearly propping up the bottom line and keeping several Pop-Tarters in a job.
If the Pop-Tarts brand manager is reading this, let me promise you something: I am a one-man research project. I guarantee there’s not a living human being more qualified to be doing your advertising than yours truly. Call me. Let’s have lunch. Bring a big box of fresh ones, too. You won’t be sorry.
I have toured hundreds of manufacturing facilities from beer to candy to bakeries to MoonPies and plastic products out the wazoo. No Pop -Tart tour yet. I have worked on almost every single thing you can stick in your house, fridge, car, mouth, eyes, ears, nose or butt. No Pop-Tarts. It’s about time. I know, I know, people say they’re not healthy. All of the people who told me that are now dead. I am chewing one right now as I type. Don’t be surprised if I live well past a hundred. Why do you think they’re called preservatives? I have been deathly ill and a Pop-Tart has brought me back to the living. I have witnesses.
Pop-Tarts have all of the major food groups in one, just like astronaut food: – sugar, dough, sugar, cinnamon. Did I mention sugar? No e coli in Pop-Tarts, either. You don’t have to wash them off. And I mainline mine straight out of the foil wrapper; no pansy toaster for me. Be a man.
Some people love a good cigar; others, a nice glass of wine; some want a cold beer when they get home. Me? Just make sure I have a box of BSC PT’s and I’m good to go. Kellogg’s, you know where to find me.
