I’ve decided how I will die.
No, no, no – don’t get me wrong. I’m not being morbid. I have no intention of passing any time soon. Trust me on that. When my time comes I will fight the grim reaper with every ounce of strength, grit and deceit I can muster. But I have seen the future of my mortality and it has a name.
It’s the Pop Tart Stuffed Doughnut.
Yep. A bakery in San Francisco has taken all the delicious goodness found in Kellogg’s breakfast pastry and shoved it, like a dessert turducken, into the cavity of a yummy doughnut. Sound amazing? Of course it does.
Now, I’m not in the City by the Bay and I have no plans of visiting. I don’t even eat desserts anymore. Yet I know that as sure as the sun will rise that I will – one day – somehow be in the position to try one of these so-called Big Poppa Tarts and I will seize the opportunity because it is the most incredible thing I have ever heard of and I will put it into my mouth and savor the sweet, delectable goodness of this hybrid confection and then my heart will asplode and my brain will seize up and I will die because humans are not made to withstand such utter decadence delivered in the form of a high-caloric sweetbomb.
Of course, armed with this prescience, I could avoid the pitfalls of a patisserie-plagued demise and steer clear of the Pop Tart doughnut. But no. The foreknowledge of my doom places me on a perfect path that leads me inexorably toward this sinful streudelkin in a way that comforts me with its surety. I live, I breathe, I exist in contentment, knowing my perverted pudding oblivion awaits.
So fare-ye-well, Pop Tart Stuffed Doughnut. We shall meet one day. Yes, we shall.
And it will be glorious.