If there is one immutable fact about me that the passing years only intensify and heighten, it is this: I love candy. I love Mountain Dew Throwback and Ghirardelli milk chocolate & caramel squares and Coke de Mexico and Giant Chewy Nerds and, on more than one occasion, I've consumed all of them sequentially in a pancreas-blighting anti-purification ritual.So it was with great anticipation that, during a recent trip to eastern Ohio, I found Gingerbread Pop-Tarts for sale (right next to bags of Dove Easter Eggs made with milk chocolate and peanut butter, which I also snagged). I went conservative, buying only one twelve-pack, and immediately regretted such hesitation.
Because. They. Are. Delicious.
Should they be called candy? Of course, given that they have more sugar than the average Pop-Tart, which is laden with the sweet stuff. (The biggest giveaway is that layer of frosting/icing on the inside.) And they have great printed pictures on the surface, pictures that almost look like things in the world, but with a bit of Surrealist distortion. (Remember that part of the sadistic thrill of eating gingerbread men, much like chomping the body parts of chocolate bunnies, is the delicious amputations each bite provides.)
Now, I'm not going to ask people to buy me these rare delights on sight; I made that mistake writ large last year, when I asked my Intro Psych classes to buy me boxes of Franken-Berry and Boo-Berry, which I couldn't find. (Because of my flip requests, I was on the hook for 42 boxes of cereal, for which the bounty was double the purchase price. Sometimes I should shut my fucking mouth before Mr. Impulsivity comes roaring out.) But as I prepare to chow down on the last package of Gingerbread Pop-Tarts, I wonder --sniff sniff-- if I'll ever see them again.
Perhaps, in some sugary dream land.
Which I'm sure I'll see soon, as all this sugar should put me into a diabetic coma quick smart.
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