God damn, this isn’t graceful or particularly bashful but it just absolutely lights you up with smuckers and danish jelly jams. It’s such a hefty lingering viscosity to the mouthfeel and sweet distilled preserves that berries actively feel bad for me in the best way. It’s a one note uncrustable that omits the lipids in favor of a jelly sammie of recess shattering proportions. Syrupboarding myself in Gitmo so the US gov can find out the blueberry access codes. This is essentially the brash three floyds execution in mead form, somehow pushing that Kuhnhenn paradigm to new smashed heights.

Glad to see Seattle has their own BMI-spiking saccharine emporium to offset their jittery coffee drinking lifestyles.

It’s scary how accurately 1987’s The Running Man predicted our present condition.