Pop-Tarts: The Mostest of Toaster Pastries

Pop-Tarts, how I love you.

You hit the spot. You are cute and easy to heat and eat. You are certifiably flammable when left in a toaster too long -- trust you to have that hint of danger about you, you old scamp (44 years old this year, you cougar). You solve many a hunger pang problem with a minimum of fuss. You are the James Bond of toaster pastries.

Some defile you with butter -- I had never heard of this until I read it on the internet, which proves that the internet spreads filth for the mind. Butter on Pop-Tarts is nothing but food porn, and I think more of you than that, Pop-Tarts. I would never subject you to that.

Some eat you raw. The uncooked food movement has reached even to you, has it? Will they stop at nothing? Yet only heat releases that sweet lava center. And don't they know that Pop-Tarts is Latin for "put it in the toaster"?

I forgot about you for years, Pop-Tarts, but our estrangement wasn't you, it was me. I was foolish. I thought I'd outgrown you. Now I know you don't outgrow perfection.

Hikers and bicyclists knew about your all along, didn't they, you little adventure-seeker? They remembered that you are high-carb and low fat, a perfect burst of energy for a dreary trek around the cubicle. I mean trail. I mean couch.

I love you, Pop-Tarts Toaster Pastries.

(But only the strawberry frosted ones; the others are crap on a cracker.)