What the pop did you just tarts about me, you little toaster strudel? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the PopTarts, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on Annies Toaster Pastries, and I have over 300 confirmed eaten poptarts. I am trained in Vanilla and I’m the top raspberry in the entire US poptart lineup. You are nothing to me but just another poptart. I will pop you the tart out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking poptarts. You think you can get away with popping my tarts over the Internet? Think again, poptart. As we pop I am tarting my secret network of toasters across the USA and your POP is being tarted right now so you better prepare for the defrost cycle, poptart. The defrost cycle that gently warms your interior so the regular cycle renders you golden brown and delicious at the exact moment your interior becomes delicously warmed. You’re toasted, poptart. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can cook a poptart in over one way, and that’s just with my bare toaster. Not only am I extensively trained in the culinary arts, but I have access to the entire toaster of the South Central Highschool Cafeteria Kitchen and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your toaster strudel goo off the face of my face, you little poptart. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” poptart was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have popped your fucking tart. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn toaster strudel. I will strawberry smores all over you and you will drown in it. You’re a poptart, harry