[squinting] From what I can see, this appears to be a pimpmobile leaving behind a trail of crinkle-cut French fries in a radioactive river of blood—only it’s a radioactive river of blood with jaunty blue outlining.

I love the extra cupcake stuck on the side, too. What’s that supposed to be—a pit stop?

If you want to give yourself a migraine, try reading what it says in front of the car. Don’t see any writing? Look closer. No, closer. (Pay no mind to that popping sound; it’s just your eye capillaries going.)

 

Well, I’ve made my point the best way I know how: with sweeping generalizations. (And before you send me letters—yes, I do realize that there is the occasional “good” CCC—kind of like there is the occasional twelve-toed cat.) It’s my fervent hope that you will join with me and your fellow baked-goods lovers in just saying no to CCCs, so that in time these wrecktastic creations will be relegated to the “what were we thinking?” past, alongside mullets, low-carb diets, and pretty much the entire decade of the ‘70s. (Except ABBA, that is; I’m such a sucker for those singing Swedes.)