That, my friends, is a Spicy Chorizo Mac and Cheese Bite in a Parmesan Crisp Cup.

One more time, that is a SPICY CHORIZO MAC AND CHEESE BITE IN A PARMESAN CRISP CUP. Again? No, you're good.

But let that sink in for a bit. Click on the picture. I'll wait. Did you click on it? Do it again. Now wipe your chin.

That is what wet dreams are made of. In fact, they should rename wet dreams, "spicy chorizo mac and cheese bites in a parmesan crisp cup". As in, "I had a spicy chorizo mac and cheese bite in a parmesan crisp cup that I was porking your sister last night."

Here's my take: I like to think that God's work wasn't complete until this happened. Like he just always had some nagging thought in the the back of his mind. "What am I forgetting?...I know it's something... something big... world peace?... hahaha, no... hmmm... an amphibious, man-eating shark-tiger hybrid?... no, but let's keep that on the radar filed under Awesome...oh, I know... how about SPICY CHORIZO MOTHERFUCKING MAC AND CHEESE BITES STUFFED INTO A CUP MADE OF FRIED DELICIOUS." Then his work was done. So he screamed "Booyah!", got blackout drunk, and got himself a picture of his latest, most rad invention tattooed across his massive, rippling back with the words "You're Welcome, World" done up in really sweet old english typography.

And you know what God. Thanks. Thank you so Youdamn much.

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.

Heheheheheheheh.

Hahahahahaha.

Hahahah.

HAH!

That should suffice.

I've mulled over this pastry conundrum for many years now. I've thought about the ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs. But finally, I have a quantifiable solution. An answer to the one query that's been hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles. A lifting of the burden that's weighed me down with the force of a herd of elephants. A solution to that age-old debate: What's the sluttiest pastry?

Certainly, the brothel-like appearance of Red Velvet gave the eponymous cake some distinction. And the sizable (read: fuckable) hole inside the German Bundt earned it some kudos. And I'd be remiss to not touch upon Apple Pie's mid-nineties moment in the vaginal sun. But after careful and often repulsive research, I can safely and unequivocally crown the Jelly Doughnut the Saigon Whore of the baked goods kingdom.

Think about the logistics of the whole thing. The doughnut is first filled. It is then glazed. And lastly, it is powdered. That's just a minor assembly line mix up from an ACTUAL prostitute, who is powdered, then filled, then glazed upon. Filthy, filthy, pastries. And to think, we let them hang out with our Pink Frosted.