Discover the Magical Guidance of CrackerSlut

---

 ⭐☆☆☆☆ (1 out of 5 stars, but only because I can't give negative cheese)

Ah, Better Cheddars — the snack cracker that boldly asks, “What if cheese flavor could be both overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time?” I recently revisited this relic from the snack aisle’s midlife crisis and, boy, did it take me on a journey. A journey I didn’t ask for. Like an unsolicited time-share presentation in your mouth.

Let’s talk about the name. “Better” than what, exactly? Cardboard? Existential dread? Your ex's cooking? Because they’re certainly not better than Cheez-Its, Goldfish, or even the cheesy dust that collects at the bottom of a Doritos bag. Honestly, I’d rather just lick an old Cheeto and call it a day.

The texture is an uncanny hybrid of “did someone bake this in a hairdryer?” and “pressed sawdust lightly misted with Eau de Fromage #3.” You don’t so much chew Better Cheddars as you negotiate with them—each bite a contractual agreement that says, “Yes, I guess I deserve this.”

And the flavor? Imagine cheese… now imagine that cheese being described to someone who’s never actually tasted it, and then that person was given five minutes and a salt lick to recreate it. 

That’s the Better Cheddar experience.

They come in a box, presumably to shield the public from seeing them in their natural state: loose and confused. I don’t know what they’re made of. I assume science was involved. Possibly alchemy. Definitely regret.

To their credit, they are round. That’s something. Circles are fun. Wheels are circles. Pizzas are circles. But unlike those noble foods, Better Cheddars do not roll into your heart. They just kind of plop there and stay too long, like your cousin Kyle who still thinks "planking" is funny.

In conclusion, if you're looking for a snack that pairs perfectly with disappointment, mild dehydration, and the slow realization that you're eating them only because they were on sale in 1994 and you never cleaned out your pantry — Better Cheddars have your back.

Would I recommend them? Only to people I deeply resent or those participating in a dare-based diet.

 Gemma Slams another shitty shot of God knows what, crumbs flying like confetti at a strip club.

Holy sht, Goldfish, you little orange fckers, you’ve got me by the balls at 3 a.m., and I’m ready to throw hands for you! 

I’m six drinks deep, maybe seven, f*ck if I know, because I’m too busy cramming these fishy bastards down my gullet like a goddamn pelican on a bender.

The SHAPE? Why the hell are you fish?! It’s so fcking deranged, I’m obsessed. You’re not just a cracker, you’re a whole-ass underwater fever dream. I’m out here pretending I’m a shark tearing through a school of these cheesy little shts, CHOMP CHOMP, and it’s giving big-dck energy. The texture? Fcking CRISP. Like, “fck you and your eardrums” crisp. Every bite’s like a punch to the face, CRUNCH, and my neighbors can suck it if they’re mad about the noise. Goldfish don’t give a sht about your noise complaints, they’re too busy swimming in that cheddar filth.

The flavor? JESUS FCKING CHRIST. It’s like someone took a block of cheese, told it to get nasty, and then turned it into a cracker that fcks your tastebuds raw. Cheddar Goldfish are the goddamn GOAT—don’t come at me with that “pretzel” or “pizza” bullsht, those are for cowards who jerk off to sadness. Cheddar’s so salty, so savory, it’s practically fcking me up the soul. I’m ready to propose to these crackers, and they’re saying “hell yeah” because they know they’re the sluttiest snack in the game.

But these fish? They’re fcking DANGEROUS. Open that bag, and it’s like diving into a black hole of pure gluttony. You think you’re gonna eat “one serving”? Fck outta here with that “55 fish” serving size nonsense. I’m snorting handfuls like it’s cocaine, and when the bag’s empty, I’m crying harder than when my ex dumped me. I’m licking crumbs off my shirt like a f*cking gremlin, orange dust all over my fingers like I just fingerbanged a Cheeto, and I’m LIVING for it.

And those little bastards STICK to your teeth like they’re tryna move in. Clingy as fck, and I’m here for it. They’re like, “We ain’t leaving, btch,” and I respect the audacity. I’m a mess, looking like I rolled in a cheese factory explosion, and I’d still choose these over any other snack. 

Goldfish are the chaotic, unhinged sluts of the cracker world, and I’m their biggest simp. 15/10, would drunk-f*ck my way through another bag. shoves more in my face and screams into the abyss.

⭐🤷‍♂️🔥🍷??/5

OK LISTEN.

Lisssn. 

I’m gonna tell you somethin' right now about Ritz crackers that’s gonna change your damn life. They’re. So. ROUND. Like. Perfectly round. Not like “sorta round like your ex’s weird couch,” but like — NASA could land on these suckers and call it a moon mission. I swear to God.

I had, like, eight, and then I woke up and there were crumbs in my shoe and my neighbor’s dog was lookin’ at me with judgment in his eyes. BUT WORTH IT. Because Ritz crackers are, like, buttery but also dry?? HOW DO THEY DO THAT? It’s like they’re made of love and betrayal and maybe margarine but like fancy margarine from the ‘40s when everything was in a tin.

I tried to put cheese on one and I missed and just slapped cheddar onto my knee, and STILL it tasted amazing. That’s power. That’s legacy. You think Triscuits could do that? Pfft. Triscuits taste like a hay bale dared you to enjoy fiber.

Also: the name. RITZ. It’s fancy. It’s bougie. It's like the cracker version of a hotel you can’t afford but somehow you’re there anyway, in your underwear, eatin’ snacks like a CEO of Poor Decisions.

Pro tip: stack like 5 of them and pretend it’s a sandwich. Is it still dry? Yes. Does it taste like a buttery cracker air-hugging your soul? ALSO YES.

Anyway my cat ate one and now he’s asleep in a shoe so I think they’re safe for animals?? I dunno. 

Don’t quote me. I’m not a scientist. I’m a snacktist. With a doctorate in Crumbology.

Ritz: buttery golden wheels of happiness.

Also I think I just ate the last one and I’m feeling real empty inside.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ (for irony and existential intrigue)

Darling readers,

Today, I deign to descend from the mountaintop of black truffle aioli and balsamic microfoam to bring you something truly avant-garde: Chicken in a Biskit. Yes, that’s spelled with a “k,” which I can only assume is a nod to postmodern deconstructionism or possibly the cracker’s commitment to chaos.

At first glance, the packaging evokes nostalgia, budget constraints, and mild government-issued food energy. The font screams “sodium-forward,” while the color scheme gently whispers “this was invented before nutrition labels mattered.”

But let’s not judge a cracker by its cartoon chicken. Let's judge it by its flavor journey.

Upon first bite, you’re immediately struck by an aggressively intimate encounter with dehydrated poultry essence. It’s as if a chicken was tragically over-seasoned, cremated, and then gently sprinkled into a wheat-based tomb. The result? An umami bomb so potent, I momentarily blacked out and had a vision of Guy Fieri riding a rotisserie through a desert of crushed bouillon cubes.

The mouthfeel (yes, we’re doing this) is simultaneously flaky and haunting. There’s a kind of grainy disintegration that reminds one of ancient pastry ruins—if said ruins had been lovingly dusted with powdered meat.

Pairing suggestions: Serve with a reduction of Mountain Dew and tears, or for a more traditional twist, place artfully alongside a dollop of canned spray cheese in the shape of a question mark.

Would I serve these at my next supper club? Only ironically. Would I eat them alone in my pantry at 1am while questioning my career choices? Without hesitation.

Final thoughts: Chicken in a Biskit is not a snack. It’s a statement. A bold, briny, poultry-inspired manifesto. And while it may not be “good” in the conventional sense, it is—undeniably—an experience.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ (17 out of 5 stars. I would rate higher, but the internet has rules.)

I don’t remember the exact moment I first tasted a Better Cheddar, but I assume it was the same day my third eye opened and I briefly ascended into another dimension. These crackers—no, these circular miracles—have single-handedly redefined what “cheese” means to me.

Have you ever wanted to experience the sensation of eating compressed orange joy that crumbles into a fine dust that both sticks to your fingertips and your soul? Of course you have. Welcome to the Better Cheddar lifestyle. We're a small but deeply devoted group. We meet Wednesdays. We wear orange robes.

Let’s start with the name: Better Cheddars. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a promise. Are they better than regular cheddars? Absolutely. Better than my childhood? Honestly, yes. Better than love? Well... let's just say one of them won’t leave you for someone named Brad from CrossFit.

The texture is sublime. A delicate crunch that feels like the universe giving you a high-five from the inside of your mouth. And the flavor? Imagine cheddar cheese, now inject that cheese with confidence, a hint of nostalgia, and maybe a touch of radioactive magic—and then bake it into a disc you can legally eat.

I once ate an entire box in one sitting while watching Judge Judy reruns. I felt no shame. In fact, I felt powerful. I don’t know what’s in them. I don’t want to know. There are secrets humanity isn’t ready for.

People say, “They taste like the 80s.” And I say, “Yes, and the 80s tasted amazing.” Every cracker is like licking an arcade machine while wearing a windbreaker.

In conclusion, if you don’t like Better Cheddars, that’s fine. More for me. And also, I will pray for you. You’re clearly lost. But not beyond hope. Find a box. Eat one. Then eat seven more. We’ll be here when you're ready to believe.

Better Cheddars: Join us. We have the crackers.

🌀🥴🍷🍞🤬/5

OkAY. WHO. WHO told Wheat Thins they were invited to the snack party?? No no no sit down Brenda, I’m talking. I’m TALKING. I opened this box because I was out of Cheez-Its, and I was like, “Oh these’ll do,” and you know what? THEY DIDN’T DO.

First of all, wheat?? WHEAT?! Why you gotta announce your whole grain like some kind of humble-brag? “Ooooh I’m healthy.” No you’re not. You’re the nutritional equivalent of a beige apology.

I swear to God I chewed ONE for like 47 minutes. My jaw clicked. I thought I was stuck in a time loop. What is this texture? It’s like drywall that went to private school.

They’re not even thin. They’re like, medium. They're LIES. They're Wheat Mediums. False advertising, and I will be filing a formal complaint with the Snack Standards Commission. (That’s not a thing but it should be.)

Taste? It’s like someone described a graham cracker to a piece of cardboard. Not even the sweet kind. Like, the kind that’s lived in a basement and knows secrets.

And don’t even try to fancy them up. I dipped one in hummus and it just sat there, all smug, like “oh THIS again.” Tried cheese. Tried ranch. Tried sobbing quietly into a bowl of them. Nothing helps. They're like emotional support sandpaper.

But the thing is—the thing is—you keep eating them. WHY? Nobody likes them. They’re the snack version of a toxic ex. They’re dry, disappointing, and somehow still in your pantry three months later.

Would I recommend? Only if you’re doing a cleanse and hate joy.

Final thoughts: Wheat Thins are the edible equivalent of filing taxes in July. Unnecessary. Emotionally draining. Slightly bitter.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat a sleeve of Ritz like a normal drunk person. 

God bless.

 ⭐⭐☆☆☆ (2 stars for sheer audacity)

Ah yes, Chicken in a Biskit — the cracker that bravely asked, “What if chicken… but dry? And confusing? And somehow dusty?” These are not your average snack. These are meat-flavored crackers, and if that doesn’t make you pause and reevaluate your life choices, nothing will.

First off, let’s take a moment to appreciate the name: Chicken in a Biskit. Spelled like your great-aunt Luanne’s Facebook posts and presumably conceived during a fever dream involving gravy and 1950s food science. It doesn’t promise “real chicken.” It doesn’t even promise realism. What it offers is vibes—very specific, slightly off-putting, poultry-adjacent vibes.

The smell when you open the box is… bold. Imagine a hot summer day in a chicken coop that’s just been Febreezed. It’s like your nose is being personally attacked by a rotisserie ghost. And yet—somehow—you keep sniffing it. Like shame in cracker form.

The taste? Oh, it’s chicken-y. Or at least, it’s something-y. It’s as if someone once waved a chicken across a salt mine and then trapped the essence in a beige rectangle. It’s not bad, exactly. But it’s not good either. It’s like the cracker equivalent of listening to someone talk about a dream they had for way too long. You're like, “Huh. Okay. So there was a chicken. And... a biscuit. And it wouldn't end.”

The texture is suspiciously flaky, like it wants to be a pie crust but gave up halfway and took a job as a cracker to pay rent. It disintegrates in your mouth with a sort of chemical bravado, leaving behind a salty, savory residue and a deep internal question: Why am I still eating these?

Because that’s the worst part — you keep eating them. Like some kind of snack Stockholm Syndrome. Your hand keeps going back in the box while your brain screams, “YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE THEM.” But your taste buds are like, “Shh. We’re working through something.”

In conclusion: Chicken in a Biskit is not for the faint of heart or the emotionally stable. But if you enjoy culinary chaos, nostalgia with a side of sodium, and snacks that taste like they were invented on a dare — welcome home.

Would I recommend them? Only if you're brave, bored, or currently unsupervised.

 🥴🥵🧂🤬🚫/5

Okay, let’s talk about Saltines, the original “I guess this counts as food?” cracker.

I opened the box because I was tipsy, hungry, and emotionally vulnerable, and somehow thought, “Maybe Saltines will hit the spot.” They did not hit the spot. They missed the spot, fell off the plate, and then crumbled into a million dry, flavorless flakes like the dreams of my twenties.

These things are DRY. Like Sahara-level, mouth-turns-to-paper-mâché dry. I bit into one and immediately coughed like I’d just inhaled a bag of powdered regret. I wasn’t even chewing—I was just trying to survive.

You ever eat something that makes you more thirsty than you were before? Saltines are like eating a sponge someone left in the sun. They're the desert. They're the crypt keeper of crackers. You could use these to mummify fruit.

And the SALT. Dear God. It’s like they sprinkled them with the crushed hopes of mermaids. The salt isn’t even balanced—half the crackers are naked and the other half are having some sort of aggressive salt orgy. What’s the plan here??

And the flavor? There isn’t one. It’s like the concept of food. The memory of a meal. The shadow of something that once considered being edible but gave up halfway through and just settled for being a texture.

And don’t even get me started on how they show up with soup like they’re doing you a favor. “Oh hey, I’m here to elevate this experience.” No, Saltine. You’re here because someone felt bad throwing you away. You’re not soup’s friend. You’re soup’s penance.

Also: you try putting cheese on a Saltine? It breaks in half like a little passive-aggressive diva. “Oh you wanted STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY? Not today, Sharon.”

Final Verdict:
Saltines are not crackers. They are edible humidity absorbers. They’re the snack of last resort. The culinary equivalent of plain toast’s boring cousin who still uses AOL.

Would I eat them again? Probably. But only during a flu, a hurricane, or a complete mental breakdown.

God help us all.

🌚🥴🍇❓🍞/5

OKAY LISTEN. I don't know who decided to put jam INSIDE a cracker, but I’m not mad. I’m confused. But not mad. I mean… it’s a cracker, right? It comes in a sleeve. It’s beige. It’s crumbly. 

It’s a cracker. That’s how that works.

So I opened this thing thinking it was like, I dunno, some kind of chewy Wheat Thin with feelings. But no—SURPRISE—fruit guts. What the hell? Am I under attack?? Why is my cracker WET ON THE INSIDE???

Also, figs? Excuse me? I haven’t seen a fig since Bible camp and now suddenly it’s IN MY SNACK? I thought this was cheese-compatible. I tried to put a slice of Colby Jack on it like a civilized human and it slipped off like it was running from the trauma. The cracker—sorry, “cookie”—moaned at me. Not physically. Emotionally.

Fig Newtons are like a sad Pop-Tart that got kicked out of the toaster club and now lives in a retirement home for soft food. They taste like a raisin and a granola bar had an argument and someone baked the divorce papers.

The outside? Dry. But also weirdly moist? Like someone left a cracker in their coat pocket during a rainstorm but said, "Screw it, let's eat it anyway."

The inside? Jam. Not jelly. Not preserve. Not fruit-forward nonsense. Just… fig sludge. Like a fruit paste made by someone who’s never known joy.

But I ate nine of them. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m drunk. Maybe because I’m lonely. Maybe because they were there and I’m not strong enough to say no to a snack that thinks it’s better than me.

Final rating:
Not a cracker.
Still ate them.
Might do it again.
I'm a slut.