Watermelon Oreo Cookies!

I’ve received no less than two dozen messages from readers eager to hear my thoughts about Nabisco’s new Watermelon Oreos. And if we remove the word “dozen” from the preceding statement, it’d actually be true.

Behold, Watermelon Oreo cookies. On one hand bizarre, yet still perfect for summer. I’ve become so desensitized to Oreo upgrades that nothing surprises me anymore, but for those who haven’t closely studied Nabisco’s obsession with freaky Oreo flavors over these past many years, I concede that this may be big news. If you’re wondering why I’m writing like this, I finished reading A Game of Thrones literally fifteen minutes ago.

(Biggest differences between that and the TV show? I guess I can’t mention them here without being spoileriffic. I will say that the Eyrie sounded a hell of a lot more impressive in the book than it looked on television. I was especially fond of the mules!)

I normally only enjoy the crazier Oreo flavors for their novelty value. The flavor rarely appeals to me. This is best exemplified by an experience I had some weeks ago, when I found Oreos with a “rainbow sherbet” filling. I’d planned to review them, and even took all of the photos.

Then I tasted one.

I hated sherbet Oreos so much that I refused to stain my site with them. A negative review would not do. Only no review would do. The takeaway, I guess, is that if anyone should ever need hi-res photos of sherbet Oreos bathing in sunlight, I’m your fucking man.

But these new ones are actually good. Though you could accurately describe the flavor as “watermelonny,” the vibe I got was pure Bubblicious. The cream filling, resplendent in its shocking hues, tastes exactly like Bubblicious gum.

For as strange as that seems, it works. The problem with so many of these wild Oreo flavors is that they’re sickly sweet, to the point where the cream tastes like honey. Not regular honey, mind you. Not like, Stop & Shop honey hiding in a plastic bear. I’m talking about the honey you’d find at a maw-and-paw general store in the middle of nowhere. I’d imagine it to be called something like, “Joe’s Locust Wicker Hive Honey.” And the label, if there was one, would be handwritten. That’s what Nabisco has been doing to too many Oreos.

Not these, though. These have a bite, but it’s much more subtle. If I can call 75 calories’ worth of pure fat “light,” each of these cookies is light.

You take my photos for granted, but you shouldn’t. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I dislike watermelon. The actual fruit, I mean. In Jolly Rancher form, watermelon’s a blast, but I haven’t been able to eat the real thing since I was eight-years-old. I simply lost my taste for it.

So you see, I bought a whole watermelon just to achieve that one picture. One Kodak moment, and now the rest of the watermelon will rot in my fridge until it’s too gooey to lift, and rest assured, only then will I try to.

Stupid thing cost me four bucks.

You think it’s so easy, vomiting up these item descriptions and calling it art. I say, find me the man who could hear a tale of watermelon buying, and cutting, and aligning cookies on top of watermelon slices, outside, in the sweltering heat – find me the man who could hear of this and call it anything less than a process. I do nothing important, but you’d never know that from watching me.

Then, even after I’d finished the photos and packed up, I remembered that my Oreo reviews always come with some attempt to mold the cream into a monster. It’s all for you, Damien:

I rushed through it this time, because damn, I was so tired of taking pictures of outdoor Oreos. I created a mutant bee, but you might need to tax your brain to make out its shape.

Course, now that I look at it again, I’m seeing entirely different things. Chiefly, a four-legged female who is positively shocked about something in the sky. Or maybe she’s a seer who read my words before I wrote them. I completely understand her reaction.