The real stuff is great. The fake stuff is delicious. I may not be a strawberry fucker, but that strawberry syrup at ihop is sinful in it’s delectability. The aunt jemima fructose corn goo is orgasmic.

The real stuff rocks my socks, but it’s also too expensive to slather on like I’m greasing my partner before said partner our kid’s pool wrestling matches. I appreciate the disaccharides I can get in industrial drum size.