Ummmm, NO, not these supposed Pop Tarts that are really Cheeseballs in Pop Tart disguise. We've received divine instruction to partake of all things in moderation. I couldn't stand idly by and allow my beloved mini-Infidels to spiral down into the swirling vortex of Pop Tart dependency, so I forced them to face their empty calorie addiction and stop cold turkey. The Infidel Homestead has remained Pop Tart free and clean for 2 weeks now, but the hallucinatory withdrawal symptoms linger on. I say.....Be Gone Devil Cat Of Doom In The Pop Tart Box. I know who ye are!
Pop Tarts have proven a cruel mistress. Look at their blindingly shiny packages that beckon and tempt us weak mortals, flauntingly playing on our love of reflective things to lure us into their sinfully delicious web. We're Texans, and as such, my boys wear cowboy boots and big belt buckles. The Pop Tart demons that we worked so diligently to defeat, once again reared their ugly heads yesterday. My boys polish up their cowboy boots every Sunday for Church using the pre-moistened wipes infused with shoe polish that you see pictured on the right, next to its Pop Tart twin. Some hapless soul left that Pop Tart package doppelganger out on the kitchen counter, thus forcing all who passed by its leering metallic shininess to pounce upon it and scream with obvious insatiable Pop Tart lust, "Pop Tarts! We have Pop Tarts in the house again. Rejoice!" My strong moral compass wavered, as I too fell victim to the ruse, and stampeded over my kids in an attempt to try and grab the assumed Pop Tart package first and claim it as my own.
Such wicked and unholy deceptions.