Bad-Candy.com: Rebanadas, Page 2!

Disturbing? Yes, mildly.

Rebanadas is nothing more than a burnt, crusty, "Crème-Filled Toast" sandwich. That's right. It's just two toasty slices of bread folded around a mysteriously fluffy "crème" filling. More specifically, a mysteriously fluffy "ARTIFICIAL" cream filling, according to the rather vague ingredients list on the plastic wrapper. While Ben and I have a few theories about what this "artificial cream filling" may be comprised of, "nasty pig farts" are our most likely candidate. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

I guess it makes sense that snacking technology as advanced as Rebanadas could only be brought to you by a company named (I kid you not) Bimbo, which is an apparently well-established Mexican heir to the Hostess throne. Bimbo not only markets retarded bread snacks, but they also manufacture various other surprisingly competent pastry items, many of which are not unlike Twinkies or Cupcakes. In fact, most of the products offered by Bimbo appear to be harmless enough, provided you possess a liberal tolerance for chemical preservatives and Yellow #5. Even Rebanadas, the most idiotic of Bimbo's offerings, seems relatively safe; it's just bread and "crème," after all. Some might even say that such a snack shouldn't qualify for a review on this site at all. To those people, I hasten to point out two things:

1) You are lucky that we can't transmit smells through the Internet.
2) Check out the audacious Bimbo mascot off to the left. Specifically, look at his crotch.

This is what Rebanadas may or may not look like, depending on how much liquor you've consumed in the past 24 hours.

I'm not usually one to foster sexual undertones on a family-oriented site, but I've been staring at this god-forsaken wrapper on and off for the last three days, because I can't seem to reconcile the fact that the Bimbo mascot appears to be sporting an alarmingly huge erection underneath his fruity bear apron. And let's give credit where credit is due: that's quite an impressive tent the bear has managed to pitch under his smock. Not only is his "emotional state" rather embarrassingly overt, but Bimbo the Bear seems to be quite demonstrative about it. Look at how he's gesturing to us, as if to say, "Well, there it is, world! Please admire my enormous grizzly boner! And while you're at it, enjoy some of my freshly-baked cream snacks!" It's a total realization of every pubescent boy's worst nightmare regarding spontaneous public erections... except this little bear likes it. In fact, he even REVELS IN IT.

Given the company's moniker (Bimbo) and their mascot's extreme level of arousal, the nature of this "artificial cream filling" is brought into a new light. It raises questions about their choice of ingredients that are better left unasked. That SHALL be left unasked. As a matter of fact, I don't even want to think about this anymore. I'm just glad we didn't notice the bear's "protuberance" BEFORE ingesting his "crème" de la crud.

This is a picture of me smelling the Rebanadas. I can't draw hands, so I gave myself lobster claws instead. And I accidentally made myself fat. While I was at it, I gave myself night-vision goggles and a jetpack.

Come to think of it, maybe I'm not glad that we didn't notice. We probably wouldn't have eaten Rebanadas at all if we had.

I have limits, you know, and eating "bear love" is certainly one of them.

Speaking of the slightly pink, fluffy filling, did I mention the fact that it stinks like a rancid animal butt? Upon cutting the Rebanadas package open, a smell that can only be equated with diary farms and horse pastures immediately permeated the room. Both Ben and I recoiled in terror as an overwhelming bog-stench belched forth from the packaging in rolling waves of nauseous, toxic gas. We tried to flee from the sulfuric stink emanating out the kitchen, but the smell pervaded my entire apartment instantaneously, like cheap, manure-based perfume, and our only option for escape was out the front door. Once outside in the safety of the cool night air, we tried vainly to expel the poo scent from our noses while strategizing our next step. My idea was to light a small fire by the door in order to burn away the stench, but Ben was afraid the odor was methane-based and that the entire kitchen might explode. Personally, I would have been content to just set my apartment ablaze and be done with the whole situation, but Ben insisted that we carry on with the review. I was dubious. In fact, my confidence was at an all-time low. The Mexican toast rot had left me shaken, and I wasn't sure if I could face that smell again, let alone put its origins in my mouth. Ben lowered his head momentarily, obviously deep in thought, and when he finally spoke again, his words rang true, like an angel-wrought epiphany:

"Let's do it... for Cindy," he said.