Four score and umpteen years ago, a basic bitch was in her kitchen making homemade granola. The oats were hardened, the raisins were added and fourteen mini 78% dark chocolate chips were sprinkled in throughout the mixture. She innocently went to bed that night looking forward to topping her 0% everything greek yogurt with her granola the next morning.
Little did basic bitch know, her boyfriend, an avid popcorn lover, had a few too many beers turned Jack and Coke’s at happy hour, and was craving his favorite snack when he returned home. Thinking the granola was a bowl full of popcorn, he shoved the bowl in the microwave with a healthy slab of butter on top. No less than 30 seconds later, the boyfriend was passed out on the couch, the girlfriend was screaming that the house was on fire, and the granola bar was born.
Based not only on my observations, but also the opinions of society at large, this is what your go-to granola bar says about you.
You’re a commitment-phobe. You probably were a stoner in your late teenage years and Cliff bars remind you of the summer you spent biking across the United States doing fun things like drinking out of Nalgenes and rock climbing without harnesses. Your daily trip to the drug store consists of spending no less than 13 minutes reading nutrition labels on the 137 different types of Cliff Bars on display – then rereading them again when you forgot how much polyunsaturated fat is in the Carrot Cake flavored one (hint: it’s 1.5g). You probably have this sick fantasy that your prince or princess charming will reach for the same bar as you at the exact same time and when your hands touch, you ride off into the sunset together in white chocolate macadamia nut bliss.
Best time to eat: Post-sex.
You’re broke. Like, really broke. If you’re a guy, you have no chance of getting with that girl who just asked, “Do you know where the soy milk is?” to you in the grocery store because — hello — all you’ve got in your cart is a 6-pack box of chocolate-chip condensed air. If you’re a girl, you probably have some weird distorted eating complex that makes you think you’re not going to inhale a box per sitting, when everyone around you clearly does.
Best time to eat: Never.
Honey Nut Cheerios n Milk
You’re probably depressed and/or have severe parental issues. You do a good job of pretending to be healthy and eat granola minus the fact that you’re not and you probably just inhaled more GMOs than the average white trash family of six does in one week surviving solely on Hungry Man frozen dinners. You try and justify your love for this processed concoction by saying that it’s more “efficient” than eating a bowl of cereal with real milk. You should just stop. We are all judging.
Best time to eat: When you’ve hit rock bottom.
You’re a manly man – even if you’re a woman. You don’t give a fuck about crumbs because caring about crumbs are for pussies. You know good quality granola when you taste it, and you’re well aware there’s no bigger power move than breaking out one of these bad boys mid-afternoon meeting. It’s as if you’re telling the group, “I care so little about what you’re saying that I’m going to make myself incapable of hearing you by crunching so loud, I drown out the sound of your voice.” After finishing one of these, you feel like you can take on the world. You feel like you could go anywhere, bang anyone, and do everything. Chances are you’re convinced Nature Valley laces their bars with some sort of addictive illegal substance – but you don’t care because you’re already counting down the minutes until your next hit.
Best time to eat: Anytime, any place, any situation. .
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