Yes. Fucking Pepperoni Pizzazaroli:

You would think “Pepperoni Pizza Ravioli” would be good enough, or even “Pepperoni Pizzaroli,” but no. They had to add another Z in there, to make it a little more “extreme” or something. Say it with me: pizzazaroli. Up in heaven, the angels are keeping a list of the most retarded food names, and I’m pretty sure “pizzazaroli” is at or near the top.

Anyway, after yesterday’s twistaroni debacle, I scaled The Boy’s portion way back:

This stuff looks okay enough on the surface, I guess. Kind of like the old-fashioned Boyardee ravioli from my youth, but with a pepperoni odor. A not altogether pleasing pepperoni odor, I hasten to add, but The Boy didn’t seem to notice. “WHEN WILL IT BE DONE?” he asked. “I WONDER IF I’LL LIKE IT. DO YOU THINK I’LL LIKE IT? I’M GOING TO TRY SOME.”

And he did. In fact, not only did he eat the pizzazaroli I put in his bowl, but he asked for, and ate, seconds!

This is why six-year-olds are fascinating to me. Personally, I found it hard to finish my bowl. I’d be hard-pressed to tell you exactly why, because Pepperoni Pizzazaroli tastes pretty much the way it’s named; it’s like they took whole slices of pepperoni pizza, pureed them, and stuffed them into pasta shells. You’d think eating something like that would be sort of cool, but no — it’s actually fairly awful. There’s a really foul undercurrent to the taste that I couldn’t quite identify while I was eating. While I was eating, I couldn’t figure it out, but after I’d been finished for a few minutes, I realized what it was: the aftertaste. Yeah, you read that right — the aftertaste on this stuff is so bad that it sneaks back around and hits you even before you’re done.

I’m actually shaking a little just thinking about it.

And here’s another thing. I’m not the kind of guy who normally tends to get heartburn, except for maybe after a heavy night of drinking, and even then it doesn’t show up until the next morning. But no sooner had I rinsed off my bowl than I could feel that fat fucking Chef tearing his way through my innards. Ooof.

Pepperoni Pizzazaroni
The Boy: “THIS TASTES LIKE MEAT AND CHEESE. EXCEPT I CAN’T TASTE THE CHEESE.”
jefito: “(nauseated burp)”
overall score: .5 out of 5

Behold!

Isn’t modern technology wonderful? They’ve taken cheesy nacho, combined it with pasta, and put it in a can. Convenience at its best! They’ve even given us an easy-off, no-can-opener-necessary lid!

The Boy had been talking about eating this stuff since last weekend, and this morning, his anticipation went into overdrive. Before he’d even eaten breakfast, he was asking about Mr. Boy-Ar-Dee. I heard “When’s lunch?” at least two dozen times.

Now, as I said, it is not my intention to force the child into Boy-Ar-Subsistence — I made him a turkey sandwich with fresh tomatoes from our garden as a main course. As he ate his sandwich, I emptied the can into a saucepan and got to cookin’.

“THAT SMELLS GREAT,” he said. “WHEN WILL IT BE READY? IT’S TAKING FOREVER!”

Naturally, it didn’t smell great. Or close to great. It smelled like wet nachos in a can, and it started boiling unnaturally quickly, much like the terrible üncheese from a few months ago. The overall visual/olfactory experience was of something perilously close to not being food — in other words, something I would have been clamoring to stuff myself with at The Boy’s age.

So I got the bowls out, gave myself about 95% of the can, and poured the rest into his little Spider-Man bowl.

He looked in the bowl.

He looked at me.

“EAAAUUUGGGHH,” he said.

We sat down at the table together, but he wouldn’t even eat a single forkful:

As it turns out, he’s much smarter than I was at his age. Or than I am now. While he refused to look at Cheesy Nacho Twistaroni, I ate my whole bowl, and guess what? It tastes just like it smells. If your hungriest moments are spent dreaming of eating soggy old nachos, then this stuff is for you.

So, at the end of Week Boy-Ar-Dee, day 1, here’s the score:

Cheesy Nacho Twistaroni
The Boy: “EAAAUUUGGGHH”
jefito: “Tastes like soggy old nachos”
overall score: 1 out of 5

I realize it’s been a long time since I did an entry on some new piece of dumb junk food, but our nation’s beloved conglomerates seem to have put a freeze on that sort of thing lately. Leah can tell you how dejected I’ve been, week after week, as I scan the aisles of the grocery store in search of something to tell you all about.

Well, I’m feeling much better now. The search is over, friends! And not only have I found something new, but I believe I’ve actually stumbed across the worst idea for a cereal in the history of the world!

Okay, so, what are the grossest things in a kid’s world? To my memory, in ascending order, they’d be boogers, pee, and poop, right? So it would seem like a total 100% given that if you were in the cereal-making business, you would want to just strike “Booger Cereal,” “Pee Cereal,” and “Poop Cereal” off your list.

Well, the boardroom at Kellogg’s is filled with men who are either brave, crazy, or desperate, because they’ve just gone right to the top of my magical list and decided that it would be a wonderful idea to fill a cereal box with what looks like tiny pieces of dried poop.

Behold:

It’s even called Fudge Ripple!

C’mon, you might be thinking, The art department just made an unfortunate mistake. The cereal doesn’t actually look like POOP, does it?

Yes. Yes, it does.

DRIED POOP:IN A BOWL!

You might even think that this stuff looks better once you add milk to it — that it might no longer look like DRIED POOP IN A BOWL. And you’re right, it does look different. It looks like WET POOP IN A SPOON.

Open the barn door, Junior, because here comes an airplane with some very special cargo!

But the back of the box is the best part. It’s like the guys in the art department couldn’t believe what they were being asked to sell, so they decided to load up the packaging with a bunch of terrible doody jokes. There’s a big word puzzle on the back, on top of a painting of the worst carnival ever. Just look at what’s happening:

They’re selling tiny little turds in a building with a giant turd on the roof!

DON’T GO ON THE TEACUP RIDE!

How long is the line for the poop-go-round?

Remember how your mother always told you that money doesn’t grow on trees? Well, it doesn’t. But guess what does?

I’m counting the seconds until this stuff goes off the market. Grab a box now, because it’s totally going to be worth like five thousand bucks on eBay in twenty years.

Oh, and it actually tastes pretty good, too.

I realize it’s been a long time since I did an entry on some new piece of dumb junk food, but our nation’s beloved conglomerates seem to have put a freeze on that sort of thing lately. Leah can tell you how dejected I’ve been, week after week, as I scan the aisles of the grocery store in search of something to tell you all about.

Well, I’m feeling much better now. The search is over, friends! And not only have I found something new, but I believe I’ve actually stumbed across the worst idea for a cereal in the history of the world!

Okay, so, what are the grossest things in a kid’s world? To my memory, in ascending order, they’d be boogers, pee, and poop, right? So it would seem like a total 100% given that if you were in the cereal-making business, you would want to just strike “Booger Cereal,” “Pee Cereal,” and “Poop Cereal” off your list.

Well, the boardroom at Kellogg’s is filled with men who are either brave, crazy, or desperate, because they’ve just gone right to the top of my magical list and decided that it would be a wonderful idea to fill a cereal box with what looks like tiny pieces of dried poop.

Behold:

It’s even called Fudge Ripple!

C’mon, you might be thinking, The art department just made an unfortunate mistake. The cereal doesn’t actually look like POOP, does it?

Yes. Yes, it does.

DRIED POOP…IN A BOWL!

You might even think that this stuff looks better once you add milk to it — that it might no longer look like DRIED POOP IN A BOWL. And you’re right, it does look different. It looks like WET POOP IN A SPOON.

Open the barn door, Junior, because here comes an airplane with some very special cargo!

But the back of the box is the best part. It’s like the guys in the art department couldn’t believe what they were being asked to sell, so they decided to load up the packaging with a bunch of terrible doody jokes. There’s a big word puzzle on the back, on top of a painting of the worst carnival ever. Just look at what’s happening:

They’re selling tiny little turds in a building with a giant turd on the roof!

DON’T GO ON THE TEACUP RIDE!

How long is the line for the poop-go-round?

Remember how your mother always told you that money doesn’t grow on trees? Well, it doesn’t. But guess what does?

I’m counting the seconds until this stuff goes off the market. Grab a box now, because it’s totally going to be worth like five thousand bucks on eBay in twenty years.

Oh, and it actually tastes pretty good, too.

Benja described it as “the movie of the year,” and I have to confess I didn’t believe him, but then I saw this:

And I figure, well, if they’re making cookies from the movie — and putting what look like edible paper tattoos on them — then hell, it’s got to be a great film. Sorry for doubting you, Benja!

Just a few aisles away, I saw something that I’m sure has been out for many years, but I’d never noticed before:

Leah said, “It looks like an open wound,” and I can’t put it into words any better than that. Also, I kind of think there’s something wrong with the phrase “Boneless Pork.” I can’t point to exactly why those words give me the heebie-jeebies when I see them on a box of food, but they do.

And here’s what really caught my eye:

RIB SHAPED PATTIES.

RIB.

SHAPED.

PATTIES.

Are the folks at Hungry-Manâ„¢ taking greater care in the truth-in-advertising department these days, or have they figured out that the people buying their dinners don’t really care about what’s in them?

How’s a kid supposed to eat breakfast with this staring him in the face?

Some time ago, in a fit of starved desperation, I unwrapped a Slim Jimâ„¢ Chili n’ Cheese stick, and could not believe how terrible it was. I had eaten Slim Jims before, so I knew they were bad, but the cheese, man…the cheese. It was oily, brittle, chalky, and tasted nothing like cheese–in short, it showed no signs of actually being what the wrapper said it was.

I resolved to put it through a series of scientific tests to determine: IS IT CHEESE?

Here’s the offending product in its wrapper. Imagine how hungry you’d have to be in order to eat that. I was that hungry when I ate it. Don’t you feel bad for me?

Here’s what happened when I took the first stick of alleged cheese out of the wrapper. This is the first thing I noticed about Slim Jim üncheese–you can’t bend it. Outside of cooked pasta, actual cheese is some of the most pliant food you’re likely to enjoy eating, especially when it’s processed in convenient stick form. So far, the signs point to: NOT CHEESE!

Test One: Grating. Now, I’m not Iron Chef , but it seems to me that you can grate pretty much any cheese there is, so this seemed to be a pretty good way of determining some kind of baseline cheese content. I grated three sticks. Because this crap is so oily and prone to breaking apart, I also grated half of my left thumb, but no sacrifice in the name of science is too great. (Now I know how Jonas Salk must have felt.) As you might be able to see in this picture, the üncheese retained its crayon-like consistency even after grating. Signs still point to: NOT CHEESE!

Note: Performing Test One left my hand covered with Slim Jimâ„¢ Chili n’ Cheese residue. It stinks. Further experiments should not be performed without gloves. And bleach.

Test Two: Melting. Again, Iron Chef might correct me on this, but I’m pretty sure that one ought to be able to make a nice fondue out of whatever cheese one wishes–so I dumped my plate o’ gratings in a saucepan and waited for the magic to happen. Two results took place almost immediately:

1. 1. The üncheese gratings started hissing.
2. 2. A really, really bad smell filled my kitchen.

It was awful. It smelled like a cooler full of old hot dog water that had been left out in the yard for a year. I’m not normally squeamish about smells, but wow. I had to lean back or hold my breath as I stirred the pot, and it became apparent fairly quickly that no matter how long I stirred, I was never going to get rid of all the lumps of solid üncheese. Definitely: NOT CHEESE!

Note: Test Two needs to be performed in an extremely well-ventilated area. Tester should be wearing clothes that do not need to be worn again.

Test Three: Cooling. This really doesn’t have much to do with cheese, really–I just wanted to see what would happen after I let the stuff sit for awhile. I sort of expected it to separate from itself, or eat through the glass, but mostly it just got grosser. It developed a thick, lumpy skin moments after being transferred out of the saucepan. The terrible smell did not go away.

Here’s the üncheese, fully cooled, after being dumped from the glass onto a plate. As you can see, it retained its shape pretty well. This is something ordinary cheese would do. However, I think it would take longer than ten minutes of letting it cool before you could get real cheese to do this.

Note: The terrible smell was still overpowering at this point in the experiment. All doors and windows were open. In the future, testers should be equipped with, at minimum, a paper breathing mask.

Test Four: Mutilating. Our last test was motivated by un-scientific concerns; namely, anger, revulsion, and a desire to inflict harm. The üncheese was pierced and split with a steak knife, then dumped into an outside garbage bin.

I love cheese–it’s my favorite food group. This stuff, aside from being crappy, is an insult to cheese lovers everywhere. All signs point to: definitely NOT CHEESE! In fact, in all probability, this is NOT FOOD! Don’t let your friends or loved ones eat it!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a sink full of üncheese-covered dishes that need to be bleached and set on fire…

Every week, it’s something new and exciting at the grocery store. This morning, I spied with my little eye two words I never want to see on a box of unrefrigerated food, ever again:

I’ll admit, back in my bachelor days, I often gazed with envy at boxes of Hamburger Helper-type dishes, with the pasta and the meat and the allegedly savory sauce, feeling lied to somehow. I knew that if I wanted to partake of the goodness within, it wasn’t as simple as the little grinning glove on the box wanted me to believe—I couldn’t just open the box, add water, and have myself a meal. No, I would have to buy some hamburger. And cook it myself. No thanks!

I’m older and wiser now. And very glad that nobody was making these horrifying boxed dinners with beef, chicken, or ham included a few years ago. Though I’m certain I would have tried them before, I don’t care how you preserve it, or how you package it—there is something very wrong with putting meat in a box and leaving it on a shelf.

Except tuna fish. Tuna fish is different. Don’t ask me why, it just is, and you know it.

I have also come to the conclusion that the Star Wars Episode III tie-in bonanza has gotten way out of hand:

Yeah, it’s Darth Chester Cheetah. But that isn’t all. These are SPECIAL Star Warsââ€Â¢ Cheetos. Why are they so special? They turn your tongue “Darth Vaderââ€Â¢ Dark” or “Yodaââ€Â¢ Green”!

Cheetos—corn puffs with cheese-flavored powder sprayed on—are terrible enough anyway. But these are corn puffs with cheese-flavored powder that turns your tongue black and green. That, my friends, is awful, and I want everyone to write George Lucas a letter telling him that he should be ashamed of himself.

My favorite part of the bag is where it tells you how to rid yourself of the lingering effects of Limited Edition Star Warsââ€Â¢ Cheetos:

I know it’s a poem, but you’d think everybody in marketing would know that “don’t worry” is a phrase you never want to put on a package of food you’re trying to sell.

Just like “ham included.”

Okay, so, originally this was going to be another GREAT CEREAL GROSS-OFF! between Malt-O-Meal’s new Blueberry Muffin Tops (”The Taste That’s Tops!”) and Kellogg’s new Limited Edition Star Wars Episode III cereal.

I bought them both. I started with Blueberry Muffin Tops, thinking there was no way I’d be able to choke down an entire bowl:

The thing is, as I quickly discovered, they are delicious. I knew I was in for it as soon as I opened the box and was greeted with a powerful waft of blueberry muffin scent. It smelled like my Aunt Ida was in there, baking up a batch of her county-fair-prize-winning muffins. Actually, I don’t have an Aunt Ida, but if I did, I’m sure this is what her muffins would have smelled like.

Heh. I said “her muffins.”

Anyway, I digress. The point is that I quickly wolfed down the entire box of Blueberry Muffin Tops (”The Taste That’s Tops!”) without taking a picture of the cereal itself. So sue me. You think it’s so easy being Mr. Junk Food Critic all the time, you go do it yourself. I’ll just say that Blueberry Muffin Tops are similar to Cinnamon Toast Crunch in shape, texture, and overwhelming sweetness. In fact, yeah, it’s basically Blueberry Toast Crunch.

I resolved not to make the same mistake with Kellogg’s Limited Edition Star Wars Episode III cereal. Movie tie-in cereals are, as a rule, pretty awful, but the Star Wars ones haven’t been too bad. I have no memory of their actual taste, but I know I had more than my share of C-3PO’s when I was a kid:and the Episode II cereal was as delicious as anyone could expect a $2.50 Lucky Charms rip-off to be. So I was expecting great things from the final Star Wars movie tie-in breakfast.

I got the Darth Vader box, of course. It looks like he’s poured himself a bowl, only to remember at the last minute that his badass helmet doesn’t have a spoon hole, sending him into a bowl-tossing fit of rage:

The first order of business was to verify Kellogg’s claim that this is an oat-based part of your balanced breakfast:

And indeed it is!

I love it when “marshmallow bits” are listed in the ingredients. Sodium hexametaphosphate, on the other hand, well:I don’t want to think about whatever the hell that is. Time to pour myself a bowl!

The Episode II cereal, if I recall correctly, could have been described as lightly sweetened Kix with marshmallows. Episode III, as you can see, is lightly sweetened Cheerios with marshmallows. And speaking of marshmallows, these ones are pretty lame. Now, I know it can’t be easy to make a tiny, crunchy marshmallow that actually resembles much of anything at all, let alone a Star Wars character, but how hard would it have been for Lucas to loan Kellogg’s a few of the supernerds from Industrial Light & Magic? I mean, “Magic” is right there in the company name. Those guys can do anything. They clearly could have made marshmallows that looked better than these:

From left to right: lightsaber, R2-D2, Yoda, C-3PO, Darth Vader, and lightsaber. (When first examining the “Darth Vader” marshmallow, I had no idea what it was supposed to be. I thought maybe it was a big purple alien heart, or a fat bounty hunter. So it’s upside down in the picture.)

Kellogg’s definitely was not using The Force when they made these marshmallows. They also skimped on them. I, like most children, would ideally like a 50/50 marshmallow-to-cereal ratio, but I’m willing to accept 40/60. Maybe I got a bum box, but this bowl was maybe 30% marshmallows, tops. Extremely disappointing. I think maybe Kellogg’s realized this, because they’ve crammed the outside of the box full of exclusive Limited Edition Star Wars Episode III puzzles and goodies:

The movie is about young Jedi Knightââ€Â¢ Anakin Skywalkerââ€Â¢ turning to the Dark Side!

And kids, don’t forget to complete the Lightsaberââ€Â¢ Labyrinth!

Final verdict on Kellogg’s Limited Edition Star Wars Episode III cereal: It isn’t bad. It’s pretty good, in fact. But not as good as Blueberry Muffin Tops.