Listen here, Fresh Fig Upside Down Cake. I don't know what you are. I don't know where you're from. And I sure as shit don't know why someone decided to make you.

But you are SERIOUSLY harshing my mellow right now.

Yeah, I want to like you too. I see the moisture. I see the glaze. I see the copious amounts of what you call "entertaining orifices". I see it all.

Don't get me wrong, you've got the make up of a totally fuckable dessert. You're just...you're not doing it for me.

Why? Well, for starters, you're the color of toe jam. Look at other desserts. They run the aesthetic gamut from sensuous, boner-inducing reds to rich, creamy, also boner-inducing browns. They're just delightful.

Really, that's not enough of a case, Fresh Fig Upside Down Cake? Well, it appears your two main ingredients are fig and lower intestine. And while I can't speak to the appropriateness of intestine in my dessert, I do know a little something about fig.

Fig is the fruit uncle your fruit mom makes you send a fruit thank you card to after your fruit bar mitzvah. Even though he showed up 2 hours late, with a middle-aged latina escort, drank a handle of schnapps, and tit-slapped your girlfriend's 13-year old breast buds. Fig is an asshole. It's the only fruit that could singlehandedly turn one of the greatest physicist/mathematician/scholars our planet has ever known and forever link him with a dry, tasteless cookie-substitute.

So, no, we're not cool, Fresh Fig Upside Down Cake. You need to stop posing as something I would ever, ever want to put in our around my mouth. You make me sick.