This is the final installment of “How the cookie crumbles” for the year. As one of us says farwell to Macalester through the unfortunate reality that is graduation, and the rest of us go abroad, we say “goodbye.” We would like to extend our thanks to the Macalester community for gobbling up our tasty antics. This column has been a treat for us to write, and given us the opportunity to consume large numbers of creme-filled cookies. For this, dear reader, we thank you. Stay sweet! Enjoy our final review, this one of the Red Velvet Oreo. -Your Food & Drink Editors

CS: I must say, you look good all the time, baby. But when you wear red and velvet, you have no rival. You are whipped to my cream, the chocolate to my cake, the candles to my menorah and the Michael Jordan to my ’95-96 Chicago Bulls. You have yet to transcend many of my favorite things like Lagunitas beer and baseball, but don’t worry baby, you are moving quickly up my ladder. You middle is so complex compared to your friends. You are creamy, but not too sugary. When I hang out with your friends they bring all the sugar, but not a lot of substance. You are more than enough substance. Velvet, I love you.

KR: Out here in the wild safari it is rare to stumble upon the dreaded Red Velvet Oreolis, but when one does… oh when one does… it is always a spooky treat. Like the alligator hunters, the job of a Red Velvet Oreolis hunter is tedious. Long days spent in the bayou can make even the bravest folk a tad sweaty. The bright hue of the outer shell of the infamous RVO is a dead give away, yet for it has never before been caught, probably due to its suffocating scent and lethally high levels of the toxic compound of sugar. You stumble through the brush, eyes peeled and ears perked, waiting for the mysterious beast to make an appearance. The sun is rapidly setting and the dense mass of foliage is becoming progressively more ominous. Be wary brave hunter. All of a sudden, a cloud passes in front of the moon and the forest is shrouded in shadow. You hear a muffled growl to your right and then the world goes dark…

JG: Cheap thrills, man. They’ve taken too many lives. Anyway, it’s time we had a serious, adult, seasonally-appropriate conversation about decadence’s place in our society. This cookie oozes decadence like T-Pain oozes pinache. And it’s appreciated, no doubt, no doubt. Ted Cruz would not be where he is today without the help of the red velvet oreo and its squad of goated goons. This little tryptophan wonder who can’t wait for his first day of kindergar — you know what, I’m done. This is trivial. Oreos all taste the same and none of them take human form. I have a limited amount of time on this Earth and I’m done spending it on cookies.

AK: Her stupid strawberry-blonde braids hit her back as she runs down the marble, spiral stairs to the beat of every ridiculous Avril Lavigne song she makes you sing to her. So heinously sweet and freckled you could just go all Miss Hannigan on her mediocre floral corduroys. Her demands are specific— apples: no skin, tattoos: temporary, bath bomb flavor: lukewarm. Driving her to capoeira lessons, she needs the carrot and beet juice; on the way home, the avo eggplant one. Krav maga on Tuesdays, bassoon on Friday after Mandarin in the synagogue basement. Her sequined Uggs are to be worn only with her purple fur vest (stick-on earrings optional). Certainly not worth the $8.50 an hour or the leftover sashimi.