To the sniveling cumberworld who made Rice Krispies treats with that store bought jar of marshmallow cream, I say, how dare you good sir, how dare you? These krispy bars aren’t gooey sticky -- they are gelatinous oozing puscles undeserving of human consumption. They are undeserving of consumption by even the vilest of creatures on this wretched earth, mind you, and you’ve brought them into our place of employ? You’ve bescumbed us all, you fawning milksop!

You nihilist ninnyhammer! You plucky peasant of miserable malfeasance! I spit at your feet, I throw rice at your mother. May you pay for such treason, may your jowls become aromatic as buttocks--and let the taste of this fowl toxicity forever haunt your restless nights as real, monstrous marshmallows chase you through endless nightmares.

How, how could you have forgotten that those jars of weird goo exist purely for the purpose of eating spoonful after spoonful of synthetic marshmallowy goodness until we are vomiting facedown in a sugar coma? How dare you break so far from such utilitarian balance? Did it not occur to you this was one thing--one thing in this godforsaken age--upon which we can all agree? You swinging sot of smellfungus!

Begone, you sugar-spiting bastard, you bakery buffoon, you patisserie-patronizing puissance. You coprophagic wank of a fopdoodle. You fusty scobberlotcher of sweets, you whiff-whaffling stamp-crab of society; my contempt resounds between the churning of my disappointed digestion. 

Surely, you intend to set ablaze this heap of rank guano you call dessert, before I turn it to lubbering shite with my plumb hatchet. Your arsemongering will not go unknownst--never again may you plague our lunch room with your Rice Krispies excreta nor any other baked ordure you may ever muster.