I have seen the face of the Lord, and that face is covered in chewy, chocolatey, trans-fatty goodness.
Eating one (or two, or nine) Oreo Cakesters is probably a lot like making out with George Clooney:
Sure it's amazing but it's hard to totally enjoy it because you know you're just going to get hurt in the end?
When they're gone, you feel so hollow and alone and you can't understand why you fell so hard?
You wipe your tear-streaked face with the sleeve of the t-shirt you got for free after you opened a new checking account and curl into a ball on the sofa, cursing the day you ever met them and wondering how those crumbs got on your scalp and feeling more than a little like you are going to be sick but maybe if you just stay very, very still and listen to Spandau Ballet you'll feel better? I knoooooooow this. Much! Is truuuue! God. I'm so alone.*
*Author's note: This scenario is probably only applicable to Oreo Cakesters. Because there's no way I'd let George Clooney see me in a Wachovia shirt.