As I took it with my Code Red Mountain Dew (hey, caffeine + loads of sugar = alert driving!) to the cash register, I took another look at the front: Quadruple Layer! I was so excited I nearly took a bite without unwrapping it. I got back to my Bentley (okay, Murano) and opened it up. In the darkness of my car, I bit into the chocolate coating, felt my teeth sink into and then beyond the second layer of nuts, pass into the exoskeleton of caramel, before reaching the protein core. But instead of saying, “Yummy” or “Wow!”, I shouted, “Bullshit!”  How in God’s name can a company claim that a bar as sweet and gooey and scrumptious as this has 30 grams of protein hidden inside? Or even more preposterously, only 4 grams of simple carbs?? Who do they think they’re fooling? Okay, so I don’t really look like I work out, but do I really look that naïve?

I took another few bites and put the bar down somewhere between the gear shift and the change bucket.  Perhaps my road-weariness and hunger had turned me into some sort of hallucinogenic nomad wandering through the desert, so feverishly and desperately looking for water that he not only imagines that the sand he’s eating is water, but smiles on the verge of death’s door, happily basking in the sun as his sand-filled stomach offers him satisfying relief. In my state, I decided to leave half of the bar for later consumption.

The bar sat in an open plastic bag on my parents’ granite kitchen countertop for the next four days, without any protection from the elements (or cat hair).  At one point my mother took a peek inside the bag and pulled out something labeled “Beyond Ripped”.  Reading the label aloud, she simply laughed and pointed at my belly. Ahhh, self-esteem is a wonderful thing. On the fifth day, I took pity on the remnants of Mr. Supreme Protein and took a fresh bite. What the f*ck!?!? Those goddamn liars did it again!! It actually tasted better after five days at room temperature! This wasn’t a protein bar – it was a mad scientist’s experiment with some futuristic food substances that surely required the services of a 1985 DeLorean and magical clocktower to obtain. Unfair? Yes. Delicious? Absolutely. Liars? Hmmmm….

Rating: SUPREME (Liars?) ***** (Five Stars) out of ***** (Five)

Amended Comment: The quality of these bars has gone WAYYYYYYY down since this original review was published. Expect a new review right here soon!

“I’m going to review your bar and put it on the net,” I warn them, “so pick your best flavor.”

Like Donald Trump and his cronies on The Apprentice, the dorkasaurus and the two unattractive women at the booth briefly put their three ugly Cerberus heads together and announce, “Almond Caramel Crunch” in unison. I stare at them suspiciously for a moment. And then it hits me. Holy fuckwits, Batman! How the hell did the three ugliest people in the entire building all wind up in the same booth? Are they too cheap to shell out $50 for a hot fitness skank with implants and a thong to stand there for ten hours?

I bite into the bar, with these three people now staring intently at my mouth as it chews. And chews. And chews. The bar sticks to every corner of my mouth. I continue chewing as my eyes frantically search for a bottle of anything to wash this shit down. Mr. Propecia seems to sense my desperation but for some strange reason feels compelled to offer up a cheerful “We’re the best-selling bar in the country right now!”

“Manks a fumkin lot,” I reply. Here I am practically choking on his shitty bar, wondering what an improvement it will make when I spit it out onto his face, and this twink has the nerve to fabricate some phony sales statistics. For fuck’s sake, if this piece of insoluble dog crap is the best-selling protein bar in the country, Obama has fucked up America even worse than I thought.

With great determination and effort, I somehow get down the last of the bar and spend a few moments trying to trigger my saliva glands to get the remnants of this sludge down my esophagus. I sense that my audience senses my disappointment. They don’t even offer a full bar or suggest a different flavor for me to try. ‘FAIL’ is written all over their faces.

I quickly place the odds that in precisely one year the three of them will be unemployed at exactly 2:1.

Rating: ** (Two Stars) out of ***** (five)

I’ve tasted worse but never in the presence of such misplaced pride in a crappy product.

Nonetheless, on this particular day in which my better half was lost in the cornucopia of the Mall’s teen clothing stores, I found myself walking past the GNC for the fourth time and decided to have a gander inside. I effortlessly sneaked past the Jay Cutler Hydroxycut display (regularly $89.99 but now $81.99!!) and asked the aforementioned sales clerk what products were selling. Predictably, he replied: “Well the Hydroxycut is always popular but it also really works!” Embarassed by both his inability to conjure up an original thought and the idea that I appeared no wiser than his typical mark, I looked down at the display of protein bars in shame. To my surprise, I saw several bars bearing orange price stickers indicating major price reductions. While I typically scoff at the idea of paying $3.50 for 30g of protein, I have no objections to completing the same purchase at a much lower price point. So when I saw two Muscletech Peanut Butter protein bars marked down to $0.75 cents each, I seized the day and plunked down my Platinum Amex (hey I’m not a cash-carrying kinda guy).

I figured that with its R&D budget exceeding the GNP of most third world countries, Muscletech would have mastered the basics of a quality protein bar — great taste, good texture, and the right combination of chew-ability and saliva-solubility.

Sadly, I was mistaken. I took a bite of the overly salty chocolike coated bar and chewed. And chewed. And kept chewing. Problem was nothing was happening! I actually picked up the bar and read the label again to make sure I hadn’t accidentally picked up Muscletech’s new Protein Bubblegum bar or something that I was expected to chew for several hours. Peanut butter doesn’t lend itself to many great beverage combinations, so I opened my fridge and quickly settled on my son’s whole milk to wash it down. Halfway through the bar, I stopped bothering to chew. It was pointless. This wasn’t a protein bar — it was the world’s largest protein pill.

I took another bite and downed another gulp of milk to help it bypass the peristalsis and go straight into my stomach where presumably, it would continue its resistance to acidic juices before winding its way through my intestines and vacating my colon in its original form. Had I either the time or inclination to do so, I’d send my bowel movement to the Muscletech labs for them to remove the intact piece and recycle it in a new bar, at least to give someone else a shot at obtaining some benefit from my purchase.

Rating: * (One Star) (at $0.75) out of ***** (Five Stars)

Ed. Note: Subtract the entire star if paying retail. Beach sand is free.