Bimbo Rebanadas Frosted DEATH

We've all seen gastrointestinal questionable objects right? Giant pickles, corn dogs that have been underneath heat lamps for half a day in gas stations, the terror of canned Christmas dinners. But none of those things quite prepared me for Rebanadas, a word which Google tells me means 'Slice' in Spanish. Slice of what you ask? Well, let's take a gander!

Yum!

Toast. But not just any toast. Frosted toast. Two pieces of slightly burnt white bread with fucking cake frosting between them. It sounds like something I'd try to make when I was five years old and there wasn't any cake in the house so dammit I was going to make my own cake and watch Mighty Max or die fucking trying.

Even Mighty Max is stupefied by this part of a nutritional breakfast.

  The big question however still lingered? Could I eat the damn thing? After some thought I decided that yes. Yes I could!

I unwrapped it from it's tomb. The sickly sweet smell of cheap butter-cream frosting and several weeks old bread flooded the room. Flakes of frosting, reminding me of dried jizz stuck to the wrapper. I couldn't turn back now though. Too late for that. I was stuck between my own Scylla and Charybdis. The bread, and the frosting.  

 I tapped the bread with my finger. No give at all. Hard as an adobe brick. It might as well have been made out of glue and sawdust. I picked up the whole uhh...frosting sandwich and wrapped it against the table.

With a dull 'thud' a hole punched through the side of the bread, sending pieces of bread and frosting with the consistency of Elmer's finest Glue into the table. Pulling my tasty Rebanada off of the table, sticky strings of Spider-man webbing away, I brought it to my mouth, and bit into it.

Gritty like dollar store toothpaste, and overly sweet like a diabetic's cookies, the sugar in my mouth bull-rushed my fillings and said 'Hello' by taking jack-hammers to them. I grimaced and held my jaw as I inhaled sharply, sucking up crumbs and dried frosting and preservatives and red dye number 5, jamming them down my windpipe. I began choking on the evil concoction. 'WHY? WHY DID I DO THIS? HELP ME MIGHTY MAX!' Became my only thoughts as I struggled to breathe. I panic, and decide that the best way to start breathing would be to try to eat the rest of this accursed thing as fast as I can. Oh yes, the fight for this Rebanada was a fight to the death. Butter, sugar, carbs, my personal Achilles' heel.

Tears poured down my face. I instantly regretted as I slammed both of my hands down onto the table again and again, smashing the wrapper as I struggle for breath. The bread lacerating the roof of my mouth like Captain Crunch covered in tiny razor blades, the intense, searing pain of cavities, and the ever pressingly urgent need for breathe are making me really question my blogging hobby.

I don't have a picture of me dying, so here is one of Bea Arthur judging my dumb ass.

Finally, just as the world starts to swim around me, I wretch the whole vile mess up in a ball of my own spit and embarrassment on the kitchen table. I dry heave for several minutes before cleaning my mess up and deposing of my wanton treat in the trash. My trial was complete. I had won.

So yeah, craving a little cheap excitement? Don't have enough money for paint thinner? Head on down to your local gas station and pick one of these babies up for less than a dollar. You won't regret it!