Pop Tart Quotes

NO reader has ANY obligation to an author, whether it be to leave a review or to write a "constructive" one. I put out a product. You are consumers of that product. Since when does that mean you have to kiss my ass? Hey, I like Pop-Tarts and eat them a few times a year; since when does that mean I'm obligated to support Kellogg's in any way except legally purchasing the Pop-Tarts before I eat them? I wasn't aware that purchasing and consuming a product meant I was under some sort of fucking thrall in which I'm only allowed to either praise the Pop-Tart (which to be honest isn't hard, especially the S'mores flavor) or, if I am going to criticize a flavor, offer a specific and detailed analysis as to why, phrased in as inoffensive and gentle a manner as possible so as not to upset the gentle people at Kellogg's." [Something in the Water? (blog post; January 9, 2012)]

Grace? Are you tipsy? (Selena) Maybe just comfortably toasty. Pop tart toasty. (Grace)

Perhaps we humans are still in command, and perhaps there really will be a conventional robot war in the not-so-distant future. If so, let's roll. I'm ready. My toaster will never be the boss of me. Get ready to make me some Pop-Tarts, bitch.

Meaning, I need you to focus. If you want to save Madaug, you need to listen to me or the mortents will eat both of you Pop-Tarts for breakfast. (Ambrose)

How was life before Pop-Tarts, Prozac and padded playgrounds? They ate strudel, took opium and played on the grass.

The only thing crazier than hallucinating a fictional videogame spaceship would be to blame it on a frosted breakfast pastry.

Wow. Being responsible sure takes it out of you. This calls for a Pop-Tart.

Now go. Hang out with your friends and be immature. Responsible," I added hurriedly, "but immature." He made a face. "Do those two go hand in hand?" "If your immaturity can lead to consequences, then it's irresponsible." Cole grunted. "You should write that shi- stuff down." "I heard the "shit" in there, baby boy, and I'm stealing the last PopTart as punishment." "Harsh, Jo." He shook his head, backing off with a smile. "Harsh.

She was like a real strawberry in a roomful of strawberry Pop-Tarts.

Her fierce and fearful friend --who loved country music and cherry Pop Tarts and singing in public and the color pink, who was terrified of germs and dogs and ladders.

If she pops out sons the way she pops in tarts, the Dreadfort will soon be overrun with Boltons.

She searched for something to say, something that would make the world a little less dark and scary for him. 'Pop-Tart?' she offered.

What’s it about this time?” I ask. “Pop Tarts,” Britt says. Hailey turns to us and points at Luke. “This jerk actually said they’re better warmed up in the microwave.” “Eww,” I say, instead of my usual “Ill,” and Maya goes, “Are you serious?

I don't feel sorry for myself, Beck. Lots of people have shitty parents and roaches in the cabinets and stale, raw Pop-Tarts for dinner and a TV that barely works and a dad who doesn't care when his son doesn't come home during a national disaster. The thing is, I'm lucky. I had the bookstore.

Here we see that models, despite their reputation for impartiality, reflect goals and ideology. When I removed the possibility of eating Pop-Tarts at every meal, I was imposing my ideology on the meals model. It’s something we do without a second thought. Our own values and desires influence our choices, from the data we choose to collect to the questions we ask. Models are opinions embedded in mathematics.

My mother tells me I do not chew my food enough; she says I am making it harder for my body to get the essential nutrients it needs. If she were here, I would remind her that I am eating a blueberry Pop-Tart.

he’s tradition and familiarity. He is homemade pop tarts on the first Saturday of the month. He is late-night viewings of Die Hard in the sticky summer heat, both of our phones propped up on our respective coffee tables. He is pizza with extra mushrooms and light sauce, a crust that has to be perfect.

When I’m a woman, I eat Pop-Tarts and vindaloo. When I’m a big black bird, I eat eyeballs and spleens. It’s all part of the glorious contradiction that is me.

Snooki is a bestselling author? Huh? What? I don't know if I should dumb down my book, shoot myself or find a publisher who'll settle for a rough draft written on a Pop-Tart and a coconut lotion handie..

...I thought you would like something a touch more substantial after weeks of eating nothing but"-she picked up a box of Pop-Tarts, squinting at the label as she read the ingredients-"high-fructose corn syrup.

look here you old, painted hussy! I am neither a tart, a trollop, nor am I a strumpet! I am a lady of refined breeding and culture, so bugger off, before this little poppet pops you one in that ugly, wrinkled mug!

She is not a cookie. Neither is she a biscuit, a PopTart, Sweet TART, apple tart, or any other kind of pastry. She is my apprentice.

Morty: "I mean, why would a Pop-Tart want to live inside a toaster, Rick? I mean, that would be like the scariest place for them to live. You know what I mean?" Rick: "You're missing the point Morty. Why would he drive a smaller toaster with wheels? I mean, does your car look like a smaller version of your house? No.

What grown man eats Pop Tarts??” “That would be my boyfriend…” I sigh. “He eats like a pregnant seven-year-old.

The AHA even rode the profit wave of refined carbohydrates from the 1990s onward by charging a hefty fee for the privilege of putting the AHA’s “Heart Healthy” check mark on products, with the label ending up on some dubious candidates, such as Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes, Fruity Marshmallow Krispies, and low-fat Pop-Tarts.

He’s more than my best friend - he’s tradition and familiarity. He is homemade pop tarts on the first Saturday of the month. He is late-night viewings of Die Hard in the sticky summer heat, both of our phones propped up on our respective coffee tables. He is pizza with extra mushrooms and light sauce, a crust that has to be perfect.

The nearest thing the Earth has to an official record of the time before toasters had vomited their last pop tarts was the Internet. But that, they argued, was hardly a reliable source. Even if it weren't treason to access it in the first place, who could trust a repository of linked information that rewrote itself, and set so much store by talking cats?

You ever see a poptart do the moonwalk? Magic

All I’d eaten that morning was a raw strawberry Pop-Tart I’d wolfed down in my car on the way to school—and

Dude you gota get over here Greg sounded more than a little freaked out but since Greg freaks out when he burns a Pop-Tart it didn't give me much to go on.

It seemed amazing to me that one night could hold so much, from a merry-go-round to a Pop-Tart with frosting to the most beautiful singing I'd ever heard.

Like you're her Pop-Tart angel. Like you shit sunshine. Like you invented love as a concept.

destroy the gods, steal their Pop-Tarts, and otherwise cause mass chaos.

He openned the door that he assumed was the garage only to find himself in the pantry. crap. "Um . . . grabbing some Pop-Tarts for the road," Nick said, covering his mistake. Still, they both stared at him as if he'd escaped Arkham Asylum. Offering them a fake smile, he grabbed the pastries, crossed himself, and hoped he got the next door correct. Nope. Bathroom. With a pain-filled groan at his rampant stupidity, Nick pretended to use it before he tried again. At least there were only two more doors to go. Fifty-fifty chance. Thankfully, third time was the charm.

She opened the door in her pajamas and judging by her hair, she’d just woken up, but hell, even in the morning the little pop-tart looked good. Her cheeks were rosy and her lips were plump and ready.

What’s it about this time?” I ask. “Pop Tarts,” Britt says. Hailey turns to us and points at Luke. “This jerk actually said they’re better warmed up in the microwave.” “Eww,” I say, instead of my usual “Ill,” and Maya goes, “Are you serious?” “I know, right?” says Hailey. “Jesus Christ!” Luke says. “I only asked for a dollar to buy one from the machine!” “You’re not wasting my money to destroy a perfectly good Pop Tart in a microwave.” “They’re supposed to be heated up!” he argues. “I actually agree with Luke,” Jess says. “Pop Tarts are ten times better heated up.” I move my shoulder so her head isn’t resting on it. “We can’t be friends anymore.” Her mouth drops open, and she pouts. “Fine, fine,” I say, and she rests her head on my shoulder with a wide grin. Total weirdo. I don’t know how she’ll survive without my shoulder when she graduates in a few months.

Either I protect my friends and lie low until the fight for Radiasure is over, or I put everyone in harm's way and make sure that horrible drug never gets made again. Maybe if I was only putting myself at risk, I could be okay with it. But I can't make this decision for my friends and family. This is too much for one invisible girl to handle. "What do I do, Mom?" She puts her hands on my shoulders. "Sit down. I'll get the Pop Tarts.

We are all animals. We're born them and we break like them and that's the truth at the bottom of things. We think we're special because we have produced Rambrant and Pop-tarts and infomercials, but death is our real common heritage.

Indiscriminate sex is like indiscriminate pie eating. I might enjoy the pie, but then I find out it was baked in a dirty kitchen, drooled and sneezed on by nut jobs, baked by a nut job who wants me to eat her dirty pie every day. Next thing you know I have a stalker, dysentery, and herpes just from one ignorant bite of pie. I keep my kitchen clean and discriminate and so should my partner. Plus, I don’t want someone telling me Pop-Tarts are pie. Pop-Tarts aren’t pie. I can tell the difference.

The machines had been in control of the Solar System for so long that there were whole elements of robot society who couldn’t believe humans had ever been a dominant species. The nearest thing the Earth had to an official record of the time before the toasters had vomited their last pop tarts was the Internet. But that, they argued, was hardly a reliable source. Even if it weren’t treason to access it in the first place, who could trust a repository of linked information that rewrote itself, and set so much store by talking cats?

Ready for dessert?” Darius held the plate of tarts out to her. Nicole quickly swallowed the bread she’d just popped into her mouth and dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Yes. Thank you.” She reached for a strawberry one from the pastry plate, smiling shyly. He smiled back, and Nicole savored the ease that had built between them. “Wonderful,” he said, selecting a blackberry tart for himself. “Then perhaps you are also ready to tell me about the trouble you’re running away from.” Nicole’s gaze flew to his, the peace of the moment obliterated as effectively as a hunter’s shot blasting through a morning meadow.

Culinary history is rife with controversy and debate. Ketchup on steak and pineapple on pizza are quaint discussions compared to outright fights over adding salt to the water when boiling pasta or the balance of peanut butter and jam in a sandwich. Foodies now wonder whether a Pop-Tart can be considered a ravioli.

There will be a cauldron of spiced hot cider, and pumpkin shortbread fingers with caramel and fudge dipping sauces as our freebies, and I've done plenty of special spooky treats. Ladies' fingers, butter cookies the shape of gnarled fingers with almond fingernails and red food coloring on the stump end. I've got meringue ghosts and cups of "graveyard pudding," a dark chocolate pudding layered with dark Oreo cookie crumbs, strewn with gummy worms, and topped with a cookie tombstone. There are chocolate tarantulas, with mini cupcake bodies and legs made out of licorice whips, sitting on spun cotton candy nests. The Pop-Tart flavors of the day are chocolate peanut butter, and pumpkin spice. The chocolate ones are in the shape of bats, and the pumpkin ones in the shape of giant candy corn with orange, yellow, and white icing. And yesterday, after finding a stash of tiny walnut-sized lady apples at the market, I made a huge batch of mini caramel apples.

There is no quick and easy way to make the life of God the life we lead. It takes years of sacred reading, years of listening to all of life, years of learning to listen through the filter of what we have read. A generation of Pop Tarts and instant cocoa and TV dinners and computer calculations and Xerox copies does not prepare us for the slow and tedious task of listening and learning, over and over, day after day, until we can finally hear the people we love and love the people we've learned to dislike and grow to understand how holiness is here and now for us. But someday, in thirty years and thirty days perhaps, we may have listened enough to be ready to gather the yield that comes from years of learning Christ in time, or at least, in the words of the Rule of Benedict, to have made "a good beginning.

The Pop-Tarts page is often aflutter. Pop-Tarts, it says as of today (February 8, 2008), were discontinued in Australia in 2005. Maybe that's true. Before that it said that Pop-Tarts were discontinued in Korea. Before that Australia. Several days ago it said: "Pop-Tarts is german for Little Iced Pastry O' Germany." Other things I learned from earlier versions: More than two trillion Pop-Tarts are sold each year. George Washington invented them. They were developed in the early 1960s in China. Popular flavors are "frosted strawberry, frosted brown sugar cinnamon, and semen." Pop-Tarts are a "flat Cookie." No: "Pop-Tarts are a flat Pastry, KEVIN MCCORMICK is a FRIGGIN LOSER notto mention a queer inch." No: "A Pop-Tart is a flat condom." Once last fall the whole page was replaced with "NIPPLES AND BROCCOLI!!!!!

I've been developing killer updated versions of things like Black Forest cake, now with bittersweet devil's food cake, a dried-cherry conserve, and whipped vanilla creme fraiche. I've perfected a new carrot cake, adding candied chunks of parsnips and rum-soaked golden raisins to the cake and mascarpone to the frosting. And my cheeky take on homemade Pop-Tarts will be available in three flavors- blueberry, strawberry, and peanut butter and jelly- and I've even ordered fun little silver Mylar bags to pack them in.

She got up and went to her tiny kitchen. On the way she turned on her radio. "You want something to eat?" she called over her shoulder. "What do you have?" "Um..." She opened her refrigerator. "Milk, yogurt, and wilted lettuce." She checked her cupboard. "Cheerios. Instant grits. Sorry-- I figured that since this is technically the South, I should try grits. Ah-hah! Pop-Tarts." "Pop-Tarts! All right," he said enthusiastically. He came to join her as she loaded the toaster. "Life. It just doesn't get any better than this. You and Pop-Tarts.

For the weekend before, we had had a blowout of tarts, a tart bender, tart madness- even, I dare say, a Tart-a-pa-looza, if you will forgive one final usage of the construction before we at last bury that cruelly beaten dead pop-culture horse. Tarte aux Pêches, Tarte aux Limettes, Tarte aux Poires, Tarte aux Cerises. Tarte aux Fromage Frais, both with and without Pruneaux. Tarte aux Citron et aux Amandes, Tarte aux Poires à la Bourdalue, and Tarte aux Fraises, which is not "Tart with Freshes," as the name of the Tarte aux Fromage Frais ("Tart with Fresh Cheese," of course) might suggest, but rather Tart with Strawberries, which was a fine little French lesson. (Why are strawberries, in particular, named for freshness? Why not blackberries? Or say, river trout? I love playing amateur- not to say totally ignorant- etymologist....) I made two kinds of pastry in a kitchen so hot that, even with the aid of a food processor, the butter started melting before I could get it incorporated into the dough. Which work resulted in eight tart crusts, perhaps not paragons of the form, but good enough. I made eight fillings for my eight tart crusts. I creamed butter and broke eggs and beat batter until it formed "the ribbon." I poached pears and cherries and plums in red wine.

There are food stations around the room, each representing one of the main characters. The Black Widow station is all Russian themed, with a carved ice sculpture that delivers vodka into molded ice shot glasses, buckwheat blini with smoked salmon and caviar, borsht bite skewers, minipita sandwiches filled with grilled Russian sausages, onion salad, and a sour cream sauce. The Captain America station is, naturally, all-American, with cheeseburger sliders, miniwaffles topped with a fried chicken tender and drizzled with Tabasco honey butter, paper cones of French fries, mini-Chicago hot dogs, a mac 'n' cheese bar, and pickled watermelon skewers. The Hulk station is all about duality and green. Green and white tortellini, one filled with cheese, the other with spicy sausage, skewered with artichoke hearts with a brilliant green pesto for dipping. Flatbreads cooked with olive oil and herbs and Parmesan, topped with an arugula salad in a lemon vinaigrette. Mini-espresso cups filled with hot sweet pea soup topped with cold sour cream and chervil. And the dessert buffet is inspired by Loki, the villain of the piece, and Norse god of mischief. There are plenty of dessert options, many of the usual suspects, mini-creme brûlée, eight different cookies, small tarts. But here and there are mischievous and whimsical touches. Rice Krispies treats sprinkled with Pop Rocks for a shocking dining experience. One-bite brownies that have a molten chocolate center that explodes in the mouth. Rice pudding "sushi" topped with Swedish Fish.

If we don’t keep people in space, we’re gonna die on this planet because there are so many deep-dish morons without the slightest understanding of science legislating on, surprise, science. These ripped trash bags would be lucky to pass a third grade Earth Science course but they’re making decisions right now for you and me. Decisions that are going to hurt out children and our children’s children. So instead of actually electing someone whose built a campaign on something substantial or informed, instead of that, we have to choose between an unfrosted pop-tart and a flattened packing peanut for our next president and neither one of them has the slightest idea just what NASA is researching why it’s so vital. These factory reject dildos are the worst of the worst and no matter we do, or how mad I get, or how many lives in the future will depend on the things that NASA is learning regularly these wet handshakes have made a decision. For what? For votes.

Althorpe threw open a set of heavy double doors to reveal the spacious in-house movie theater, furnished with about twenty high-end leather couches and captains’ seats that had their own tables for snacks. Lacey and I were agog. The Cubs—my Cubs—were about to play for their lives on the wall of Buckingham Palace. “An immense moment demands an immense screen,” came Eleanor’s voice. When she rose with some effort from her seat, I blinked. It looked familiar. But it couldn’t be. “Eleanor,” I said, dropping all formality. “Is that…?” “A Coucherator,” she said. “Nicholas spoke to your mother and had one flown in. There is a treat in it for you.” She opened the refrigerated compartment of my dad’s life’s work, so roundly mocked by the British press and Eleanor alike. Inside was a perfectly chilled case of Miller Lite. It was only then that I noticed a side table stuffed with Cracker Jack, Doritos, Pop-Tarts, and hot dog condiments. “Althorpe will deliver the tube meat momentarily,” Eleanor said.

morning to pour out the sugar and substitute salt, thinking it so hilarious until our father lost his temper and spanked us both. The two of us dancing on the Eden patio in my mother’s cast-off nightgowns. Playing mermaid on the beach or fairies on the bluffs. Later, all three of us moving like a school of fish, Josie and Dylan and me, swimming in the cove or making a bonfire or practicing calligraphy with fountain pens my mother brought back from some trip she took with my father during one of their happy stints, an interest bolstered by Dylan’s passion for all things Chinese. Like so many boys of the era, he’d fallen hard for Kwai Chang Caine in the Kung Fu television series. I adored them both, but my sister was first. Worshipped the very air she breathed. I would have done anything she told me—chased down bandits, built a ladder to the moon. In turn, she brought me sand dollars to examine and Pop-Tarts she stole from the pantry in the house kitchen, and she kept her arms around me all night. It was Dylan who introduced surfing. He taught us when I was seven and Josie nine. It gave us both a sense of power and relief, a way to escape our crumbling family life and explore the sea—and, of course, it was our bond with Dylan himself. Josie. Thinking of her in the times before she turned into the later version of herself, the aloof, promiscuous addict, makes me ache with longing. I miss my sister with every molecule

Wasanbon sugar, honey and tofu. Together, they make a silky-smooth pastry crust that gently caresses the lips... while the fluffy, sticky white bean paste melts on the tongue. Its mellow and robust flavor wafting up to tickle the nose! And with every bite, the crisp tartness of apples pop like fireworks, glittering brightly and fading, only to sparkle once again. Its sweet deliciousness ripples from the mouth straight up to the brain... a super-heavyweight punch of moist, rich goodness!" "Yeeah!" "Ladies and gentlemen, all the judges have looks on their faces! What on earth could have created a flavor that rapturous?!" "The biggest secret to that flavor is right here, brushed on the underside of the pastry crust... apple butter!" "Apple butter?!" "Hmm..." It's as simple as its name- grated apple, lemon juice and sugar added into melted butter. The distinctive tang of fruit is melded together harmoniously with mellow butter, creating a spread that can add acidity, saltiness and rich body to a dish! "Yet making something like this is no mean feat! Two completely disparate ingredients must be not just mixed but perfectly emulsified together! It's a task akin to perfectly melding oil with water! Even pro chefs have difficulty bringing out the butter's smooth shine without accidentally letting it separate! Managing it all requires mastery of a very specific cooking technique!" "Yes, sir! I did use Monter au Beurre. It's a technique for finishing sauces... ... common in French cooking!

Walmart uses data from sales in all their stores to know what products to shelve. Before Hurricane Frances, a destructive storm that hit the Southeast in 2004, Walmart suspected—correctly—that people’s shopping habits may change when a city is about to be pummeled by a storm. They pored through sales data from previous hurricanes to see what people might want to buy. A major answer? Strawberry Pop-Tarts. This product sells seven times faster than normal in the days leading up to a hurricane. Based on their analysis, Walmart had trucks loaded with strawberry Pop-Tarts heading down Interstate 95 toward stores in the path of the hurricane. And indeed, these Pop-Tarts sold well. Why Pop-Tarts? Probably because they don’t require refrigeration or cooking. Why strawberry? No clue. But when hurricanes hit, people turn to strawberry Pop-Tarts apparently. So in the days before a hurricane, Walmart now regularly stocks its shelves with boxes upon boxes of strawberry Pop-Tarts. The reason for the relationship doesn’t matter. But the relationship itself does. Maybe one day food scientists will figure out the association between hurricanes and toaster pastries filled with strawberry jam. But, while waiting for some such explanation, Walmart still needs to stock its shelves with strawberry Pop-Tarts when hurricanes are approaching and save the Rice Krispies treats for sunnier days.

In the last thirty years our diet has changed dramatically. These days, children eat a diet high in simple carbohydrates (sugar, white bread, white-flour food products), poor in protein and healthy fat, and positively deficient in vegetables. Think about the great American breakfast. Morning time is often rushed especially when both parents work outside the home, and there is less time to fix a nutritious breakfast. Kids eat Pop-Tarts, sugar cereals, donuts, frozen waffles, pancakes, or muffins. Gone are the days of sausage and eggs (protein), and sugar is in. Try to find bread in the store without sugar or forms of sugar (corn syrup, high-fructose syrup, etc.). In my local supermarket, only one out of about thirty brands of bread available—a dark Russian rye bread—is made without any sugar. Your diet provides the fuel

Some of them are distant galaxies, and who peed on your pop tarts?

Cooking anything in the least bit complicated came to seem futile, as silly as and perhaps sillier than spending money - on an outfit I would wear only once. The outfit, once worn, would find its way to a closet and later a trash heap. The meal....find its way to a toilet....for these reasons I subsisted mostly on Pop-Tarts

She spends every waking moment gushing about her new boyfriend Braden, and how freaking sweet he is and how adorable he looks when he eats Pop Tarts every morning

I heard the distinct crinkle of the wrapper from either a Pop-Tart or a condom.

A Pop-Tart accident? You got injured making a Pop-Tart?

In other news, there are even more Pop Tarts now available in the Cafaeteria at breakfast times and this week marks an entire month since someone died on campus grounds. Let's keep up the good work!

The pool was small and deep, a lapping lima bean, and based on Esme's demeanor - tranquil like a lizard on a rock, offering her chin up toward the sky - it seemed she had no intention of jumping in. This was always how it was at other people's houses, Mitty thought. Untouched candy bowls in the foyer, a pantry of unopened Pop-Tarts. The people who had things others didn't never even used them.

I need to make sure that Daria is a hobby, not an addiction. Adolescent hearts are trash and as loyal as a starving stray cat. They’ll take anything. Even scraps. I don’t want to feed my rusty tin heart junk. And Daria, she stomped on it hard enough for me to know she’s not even a greasy burger. She’s a Pop-Tarts covered in cyanide. I

My hand hovers over the packages of double-stuffed, then veers toward the triple-stuffed, because if I was rich I’d swim every morning in a pool of Oreo filling instead of water. I toss them in the cart with the rest of my dinner of champions—beer, Pop Tarts, and lube.

strawberry Pop-Tarts increase in sales, like seven times their normal sales rate, ahead of a hurricane,’ Ms. Dillman said in a recent interview. ‘And the pre-hurricane top-selling item was beer.’”[

Bizarre and Surprising Insights—Consumer Behavior Insight Organization Suggested Explanation7 Guys literally drool over sports cars. Male college student subjects produce measurably more saliva when presented with images of sports cars or money. Northwestern University Kellogg School of Management Consumer impulses are physiological cousins of hunger. If you buy diapers, you are more likely to also buy beer. A pharmacy chain found this across 90 days of evening shopping across dozens of outlets (urban myth to some, but based on reported results). Osco Drug Daddy needs a beer. Dolls and candy bars. Sixty percent of customers who buy a Barbie doll buy one of three types of candy bars. Walmart Kids come along for errands. Pop-Tarts before a hurricane. Prehurricane, Strawberry Pop-Tart sales increased about sevenfold. Walmart In preparation before an act of nature, people stock up on comfort or nonperishable foods. Staplers reveal hires. The purchase of a stapler often accompanies the purchase of paper, waste baskets, scissors, paper clips, folders, and so on. A large retailer Stapler purchases are often a part of a complete office kit for a new employee. Higher crime, more Uber rides. In San Francisco, the areas with the most prostitution, alcohol, theft, and burglary are most positively correlated with Uber trips. Uber “We hypothesized that crime should be a proxy for nonresidential population.…Uber riders are not causing more crime. Right, guys?” Mac users book more expensive hotels. Orbitz users on an Apple Mac spend up to 30 percent more than Windows users when booking a hotel reservation. Orbitz applies this insight, altering displayed options according to your operating system. Orbitz Macs are often more expensive than Windows computers, so Mac users may on average have greater financial resources. Your inclination to buy varies by time of day. For retail websites, the peak is 8:00 PM; for dating, late at night; for finance, around 1:00 PM; for travel, just after 10:00 AM. This is not the amount of website traffic, but the propensity to buy of those who are already on the website. Survey of websites The impetus to complete certain kinds of transactions is higher during certain times of day. Your e-mail address reveals your level of commitment. Customers who register for a free account with an Earthlink.com e-mail address are almost five times more likely to convert to a paid, premium-level membership than those with a Hotmail.com e-mail address. An online dating website Disclosing permanent or primary e-mail accounts reveals a longer-term intention. Banner ads affect you more than you think. Although you may feel you've learned to ignore them, people who see a merchant's banner ad are 61 percent more likely to subsequently perform a related search, and this drives a 249 percent increase in clicks on the merchant's paid textual ads in the search results. Yahoo! Advertising exerts a subconscious effect. Companies win by not prompting customers to think. Contacting actively engaged customers can backfire—direct mailing financial service customers who have already opened several accounts decreases the chances they will open more accounts (more details in Chapter 7).

We didn’t know in the past that strawberry Pop-Tarts increase in sales, like seven times their normal sales rate, ahead of a hurricane,’ Ms. Dillman said in a recent interview. ‘And the pre-hurricane top-selling item was beer.’”[

Pop-Tarts would be nice. Pop-Tarts and Tang.

ached, until his head throbbed, all of that preparation comes down to today. It’s finally here! He quickly brushes his teeth and puts on his Halloween costume. He picks up the trombone case and his school backpack and heads downstairs quietly, not wanting to wake his mother. He rips open the cellophane and drops two Pop-Tarts into the toaster and pours himself a glass of milk. He drinks the milk but doesn’t touch the pastries.

Looking at him like he’d grown another head, she raised her hands up as she asked, “Don’t you have some other girl you want to harass? Maybe a girl who would actually appreciate it?” “Nope. You are the only girl I want to harass.” Which was the truth. Since he’d met Deanna, no other woman had existed for him. If he wasn’t with her, he was thinking about her. When he was with her, he wanted to stay with her, get to know her—and not only in the biblical sense, but that was definitely on top of his list. More attendees started filing out of the double doors, and Deanna’s head fell back as she let out a small groan. She might not have meant for the gesture to be or sound sexual, but that’s exactly what it’d been. He wanted to lean forward and press his lips to the soft skin on her neck, slide his hands up her dress and find out if she was wearing lace panties, silk panties, or no panties… “You win.You can drive me home.” She sounded anything but happy at her acquiescence, but Lucky was happy…Very happy. Well, this night had gone from bad, to worse, to horrible, to just plain humiliating. As Lucky opened the passenger side door to his SUV and held her hand while she got in, she immediately sent up a silent prayer that he didn’t notice the way a shiver ran up her arm from the touch of his large, rough hands. Deanna took a deep breath and pushed down the frustration and panic that was battling inside of her for top billing. Once he shut the door, she tugged her skirt down. When he got in, the entire left side of her body broke out in goosebumps from the intense stare he directed at her, but she kept her eyes trained ahead, looking out the windshield. She sat with her jaw set, her hands folded in her lap, and her back straight, hoping to convey that she just wanted to go home. “You’re quiet,” Lucky observed as they drove out of the parking lot. Proving his point, Deanna continued focusing out the window, at the moonlight dancing off the river. She knew she was being rude. She was a little too emotional and didn’t trust herself to speak. Especially considering the six glasses of wine she’d had this evening. Loose lips sank ships, and alcohol made her one Chatty Cathy capable of taking down an armada of ocean liners. “How was your evening tonight, Lucky?” he asked himself before answering his own question. “Oh, it was great, actually. Thanks for asking.” Deanna bit her lips to keep from smiling. She should’ve been annoyed at his adolescent behavior, and if it were any other guy, she was sure she would’ve been. But this was Lucky. And, whether she liked it or not (which, for the record, she didn’t), what should’ve been annoying or irritating on him always landed in the charming and amusing columns. “Of course!” he replied enthusiastically, still talking to himself. “I’m so glad you had a good time! What was the highlight of your evening, if you don’t mind me asking?” If he kept going, she was going to start cracking up, so she worked to maintain her composure. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Which she was fully aware made her behavior even more adolescent than his. She was being ridiculous. Still, trying to disguise her amusement, Deanna sighed. “Fine. You win again. What do you want to talk about?” Lucky shook his head as he clicked his tongue. “Sorry, Pop-Tart. You had your chance.” Pop-Tart? Had he seriously just called her Pop-Tart!? Before she was able to form an appropriately indignant response, he continued the conversation he was having with himself. “Wow. Highlight of my evening…” He hissed through his teeth. “That’s a tough one. I’m going to have to go with the dance that I had with this smokin’-hot brunette.” Her cheeks burned at his description. Then she tried to remind herself that he was joking around, but the message got to her head and, she feared, her heart too late.

Loki and Pop-Tarts;

Kellogg’s Pop-Tarts frequently uses cartoons as part of its visual content mix to tell a fun and irreverent story around people’s cravings for Pop-Tarts.

Often, the cartoons feature people using sneaky and creative ways to coax their Pop-Tart into a toaster. One such example occurred over the July Fourth holiday, where a cartoon depicted a person luring a Pop-Tart into a toaster made to look like a parade float. While inside the toaster, the Pop-Tart inquires about when to pop out, and the hungry person declares, “Yep, just one more minute …

By force-marching his exhausted men through the unknown, rain-swept wilderness of the German-infested Teutoburg Forest, this guy had just made a brain-explodingly boneheaded mistake so amazing in its incompetence that it makes the Roman consuls at Cannae look like a conjoined triplet made out of Napoleon Bonaparte, Alexander the Great, and that dude from Total Recall who had the baby coming out of his stomach. In terms of career moves, marching three legions into the Teutoberg was the Classical Age equivalent of coauthoring an academic paper with the Unabomber or asking Charles Manson to write you a letter of recommendation for law school. Unsurprisingly, this came back to bite him in the ass. We don’t know exactly how many Germans were hiding in the woods, watching the column of imperial invaders trudge past. The Germans didn’t bother to write anything down more detailed than “killed sum d00ds 2day lulz,” and the only Romans who managed to run screaming out of this forest alive were the ones who knew better than to sit there and try to count how many GWAR fans were currently trying to brutally dismember them with axes. Let’s just say it was probably a crapload, and that when these long-haired death metal freaks unleashed a bloodcurdling shout and started charging through the forest like a bunch of gigantic mutant Ewok-Wookies ambushing the Imperial Stormtroopers on the Forest Moon of Endor it wasn’t exactly the sort of hilarious laugh riot you might see in an animated GIF involving unicorns, rainbows, and cartoon kitties with Pop-Tarts where their bodies are supposed to be. Bellowing like madmen, these balls-out, frothing-at-the-mouth, beer-swilling sausage fiends went Leeroy Jenkins toward the enemy, blitzkrieging out of the woods from every side seemingly at the same time, their ferociousness magnified not only by their savage blood rage, but by the fact that some of the dudes had taken to painting their entire bodies black with mud to help them hide in the dark forest like how Schwarzenegger hid from the Predator’s infrared vision. It was so damned terrifying that it took every ounce of Roman discipline to not simply spontaneously combust into blood vapor on the spot.

She makes tsk-tsk sounds as she unpacks grocery sacks full of Pop-Tarts, mini chimichangas, and a frozen patty-based product called “Chykyn Wingzz,” which I suspect contains neither chicken nor wings. “Kel,

Things that the religious right would abhor if they were promoted by churches are embraced warmly in the food system. While preachers rail against bringing junk into our homes via TV, the Internet, and pornographic literature, few bat an eye at a home stashed with high fructose corn syrup, potato chips, and Pop-Tarts. Indeed, some even suggest that the cheaper we eat, the more money we’ll have to put in the offering plate. And to top it off, they denigrate anyone who would suggest part of caring for children is caring about what they eat. Every

Venture farther, though, and you come to regions of the supermarket where the very notion of species seems increasingly obscure: the canyons of breakfast cereals and condiments; the freezer cases stacked with “home meal replacements” and bagged platonic peas; the broad expanses of soft drinks and towering cliffs of snacks; the unclassifiable Pop-Tarts and Lunchables; the frankly synthetic coffee whiteners and the Linnaeus-defying Twinkie. Plants? Animals?!

I was just putting my shirt on and then I heard that you’ve been sleeping with morons that don’t know how to please a goddess such as yourself and I got a little riled up.” I barely keep the laugh in. “Ok, well that conversation was not for your ears, and now that you seem to have found your lost shirt, how about you get out of here? I’m sure you’ve got things to do. Hockey practice or something. I don’t know. Video games, watching porn. What do you guys do in your spare time?” “You think we’re sitting at home watching porn together?” His eyes light up. “Is that what you girls do? Can I come?” “I think you already did.” Emma slaps a hand over her mouth at the lasers I shoot in her direction, but Jacks makes no effort to hide his amusement. His laugh is rich and hearty. Free and easy. “You’re right. How about some breakfast. Are those Pop-Tarts?” His grin could probably power an electric car. “I love Pop-Tarts.

How dare she give my Pop-Tarts to my one-night stand? Feeding the stray will only encourage him to come back.

Whatever narcissistic delusional roller coaster you’re on, I’m not here to ruin your life. I’m trying to earn back some of the money my sister stole from me, and until the bank unfreezes my account, I’m not letting you or anyone else stand in the way of Waylay’s Pop-Tarts.

I’ve killed Lycans before. I can do it again. I will destroy them all.” Hunter started to raise a hand but then stopped himself as my stomach growled. “Come inside. I have Pop Tarts.

Pop-Tarts

animal. “Her favorite hobbies are ignoring the things I ask her to do, throwing things on the ground. And saying that she wishes I was dead. Oh, and she demands Pop-Tarts for dinner.

Come to the Dark Side. We Have Pop-Tarts

She'd make all the ingredients individually for her kimchi-jjigae," he went on. "Anchovy stock. Her own kimchi, which made the cellar smell like garlic and red pepper all the time. The pork shoulder simmering away. And when she'd mix it all together..." He trailed off, tipping his head back against the seat. It was the first movement he'd made over the course of his speaking; his hands rested still by his sides. "It was everything. Salty, sour, briny, rich, and just a tiny bit sweet from the sesame oil. I've been trying to make it for years, and mine has never turned out like hers." My anxiety manifestation popped up out of nowhere, hovering invisibly over one off Luke's shoulders. The boy doesn't know that the secret ingredient in every grandma's dish is love. He needs some more love in his life, said Grandma Ruth, eyeing me beadily. Maybe yours. Is he Jewish? I shook my head, banishing her back to the ether. "I get the feeling," I said. "I can make a mean matzah ball soup, with truffles and homemade broth boiled for hours from the most expensive free-range chickens, and somehow it never tastes as good as the soup my grandma would whip up out of canned broth and frozen vegetables." Damn straight, Grandma Ruth said smugly. Didn't I just banish you? I thought, but it was no use. "So is that the best thing you've ever eaten?" Luke asked. "Your grandma's matzah ball soup?" I shook my head. I opened my mouth, about to tell him about Julie Chee's grilled cheese with kimchi and bacon and how it hadn't just tasted of tart, sour kimchi and crunchy, smoky bacon and rich, melted cheese but also belonging and bedazzlement and all these feelings that didn't have names, like the dizzy, accomplished feeling you'd get after a Saturday night dinner rush when you were a little drunk but not a lot drunk because you had to wake up in time for Sunday brunch service, but then everything that happened with Derek and the Green Onion kind of changed how I felt about it. Painted over it with colors just a tiny bit off. So instead I told him about a meal I'd had in Lima, Peru, after backpacking up and down Machu Picchu. "Olive tofu with octopus, which you wouldn't think to put together, or at least I wouldn't have," I said. The olive tofu had been soft and almost impossibly creamy, tasting cleanly of olives, and the octopus had been meaty and crispy charred on the outside, soft on the inside.

Sugary things were restricted; candy was limited, and the only cereals we got were Cheerios, corn flakes, and wholesome hot cereals. Pop (as we called it in Arizona) was out of the question; we drank nothing but milk, water, and juice in our house. Of course, out-and-out junk food like Cheetos and Pop-Tarts was never allowed.

I thought you might like something a touch more substantial after weeks of eating nothing but" - she picked up a box of Pop-Tarts, squinting at the label as she read the ingredients - "high fructose corn syrup.

He’s more than my best friend - he’s tradition and familiarity. He is homemade pop tarts on the first Saturday of the month. He is late-night viewings of Die Hard in the sticky summer heat, both of our phones propped up on our respective coffee tables. He is pizza with extra mushrooms and light sauce, a crust that has to be perfect.

Alexander's selected the best potatoes they have in storage, a medium-sized white onion, a hearty block of Reblochon-style cheese, a slab of fatty bacon, and has even retrieved a dry white wine from the downstairs pantry. Eden's mind races. The ingredients are simple, but there are hundreds of different possible outcomes. She can't even begin to fathom what Alexander has in store for her. He handles his knives beautifully. His grip is strong, but just light enough to offer the most flexibility. It isn't very long before he slices up generous bits of bacon and has it sizzling in a hot pan, fat melting away and frying all around the meat to leave it nice and crisp. In goes finely minced onion, and then a good cup or so of white wine to deglaze the bottom of the pan. Then it's the potatoes, which he's skinned and sliced with mind-bending accuracy. Alexander pops everything into an oven-proof dish before covering the top with a hefty layer of cheese. He places it in the oven, but doesn't bother setting a timer. He's a skilled enough chef to know when it's done. "Are you going to tell me what this mystery dish is?" Eden asks. Alexander smiles. "It's a tartiflette," he explains. "My father used to make it all the time. Comfort food, for when I wasn't feeling well.

Everything was new and strange to Iris. Vi was a little jealous of her, experiencing wonderful things for the first time—Rice Krispies, Pop-Tarts, Tootsie Pops (“How many licks does it take to get to the center?” asked the wise old owl in the commercial), Saturday morning cartoons. She didn’t even know who Scooby-Doo was!

mourned the Cap’n Crunch–loving days of my youth before arriving safely at the Kashi and muesli. And let’s not even discuss Pop-Tarts—strawberry with white frosting dotted with sprinkles, cinnamon brown sugar, or chocolate—gooey and delicious from a two-minute stint in the toaster. What a waste of self-control that was.

Loki had warned me that when Ragnarok began, he would sail the ship to Asgard, destroy the gods, steal their Pop-Tarts, and otherwise cause mass chaos.

she was cradling a cat in her arms. It was a skittish orange tabby, and she was speaking to it in a slightly dotty fashion. “I know, Gaspard. I heard something down here too,” she said in French. “I hope the rats haven’t gotten into the Pop-Tarts again.

Until what?” Clary knew dimly that she was being horrible, the whole thing was horrible; they’d never even had a fight before that was more serious than an argument about who’d eaten the last Pop-Tart from the box in the tree house, but she didn’t seem able to stop. “Until Isabelle came along? I can’t believe you’re lecturing me about Jace when you made a complete fool of yourself over her!” Her voice rose to a scream. “I was trying to make you jealous!” Simon screamed, right back. His hands were fists at his sides. “You’re so stupid, Clary. You’re so stupid, can’t you see anything?” She stared at him in bewilderment. What on earth did he mean? “Trying to make me jealous? Why would you try to do that?” She saw immediately that this was the worst thing she could have asked him. “Because,” he said, so bitterly that it shocked her, “I’ve been in love with you for ten years, so I thought it seemed like time to find out whether you felt the same about me. Which, I guess, you don’t.” He might as well have kicked her in the stomach. She couldn’t speak; the air had been sucked out of her lungs. She stared at him, trying to frame a response, any response. He cut her off sharply. “Don’t. There’s nothing you can say.” She watched him walk to the door as if paralyzed; she couldn’t move to hold him back, much as she wanted to. What could she say? “I love you, too”? But she didn’t—did she? He paused at the door, hand on the knob, and turned to look at her. His eyes, behind the glasses, looked more tired than angry now. “You really want to know what else it was my mom said about you?” he asked. She shook her head. He didn’t seem to notice. “She said you’d break my heart,” he told her, and left. The door closed behind him with a decided click, and Clary was alone.

steal their Pop-Tarts,

I never eat anything with dairy, gluten, or sugar, except for every other Saturday, when my boyfriend and I do a full-on junk food day. Doughnuts, Toaster Strudel, Pop-Tarts, Goldfish, burgers, pizza, everything.

Its not pretty when I cook on my own. She was smart to eat the Pop-Tarts.

Many traffic signs have become like placebos, giving false comfort to the afflicted, or simple boilerplate to ward off lawsuits, the roadway version of the Kellogg’s Pop-Tarts box that says, “Warning: Pastry Filling May Be Hot When Heated.