That good ol' Bisque sent me a care package chock full of staff meeting snacks for all da ladies. The high amount of Pop-Tarts both proves his understanding of me and served as the basis for his name among other counselors: "Mr. Pop-Tart." There have been worse nicknames.
One item was French Toast Goldfish. I had a few at the 'sler meeting and found them delightful. Sugary, genuine, thick graham cracker texture, cinnamony. Not sure how they got the eggy subtlety, but they did.
Then something happened called While Writing My Final Reports I Ate Half a Bag. And now, even the
thought of these fish snacks make me want to barf a million times.
Fun while they lasted, but when I smelled real french toast after the fact in the dining hall, I truly did almost flip a table in disgust.
I know a product's quality should not be measured by the quantity the reviewer was able to comfortably consume, but, come on, Pepperidge Farm. What did you think would happen? Lacing those little sea creatures with coke and smiles.
B+
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