I don’t know what the hell has been going on over in the Pop-Tart factory, but I don’t want any part of it. What used to be a fun, lighthearted football game to determine which anthropomorphic pastry would be selected for ritualistic sacrifice turned into a hellscape this week with the unveiling of “Protein Slammin’ Strawberry.”
I hate this Pop-Tart Giga Chad with the strength of a thousand suns. Do I think it’s neat there’s a protein Pop-Tart now? Absolutely. Am I excited that there’s a quick throw-together breakfast I can give to my daughter in the car when we’re running behind that doesn’t make he feel like a total reprobate by not providing her with a balanced breakfast? Damn straight. Does that mean I am willing to stomach a swole Pop-Tart staring at me with its cold, dead eyes while boasting arms that could bench press 400.
The thing I hate the most about Protein Slammin’ Strawberry is that it has completely upended what I thought I knew about Pop-Tart anatomy. All of the other tarts have their arms protruding just below eye level, which makes them fun and cartoony. Swole Tart, on the other hand, has them coming out of the top of his head like some sort of a monster. It’s also made me think way too much about the arms of a Pop-Tart in general, such as:
If you ripped off Protein Slammin’ Stawberry’s arms and roasted them at 400 degrees, what do you get at the end? Are these merely buff looking pastry arms, leading to a blackened, burned dough logs — or, much more alarmingly, is the protein in the Pop-Tart localized to the arms? In that instance these could be filled with meat, leading you to open the oven and being met with something that’s a cross between a Pop-Tart covered beef wellington or a grotesque ham of some sort.
At this point I need someone to win and for the victor to choose to end Protein Pop-Tart’s life on live TV. I need to know what those arms are made out of. I hate that I have been made to think like this, but I blame the Pop-Tarts Bowl.
