Oh, Shiitake mushrooms. What can I say about a fungus whose name comes from the word for excrement combined with the word for bodily discomfort?

Not much.

1/10. Just the thought of you gives me the shit-aches.

Let me start this with a hard-earned truth: VEGETABLES HAVE NO FUCKING BUSINESS IN DESSERT. Carrot cake is an abomination. Broccoli brownies are a duplicitous, vile insult against all that is good about humanity. And rhubarb pie - even strawberry rhubarb pie - you are pure, unadulterated evil.

Let's start with your texture: stringy and fibrous, like celery, but in a blood-red color that makes even the simplest strand look like an infected adenoid. Boiled, you are pulpy and clotted, again giving me PTSD flashbacks of grisly glances into the mangled human interior (thanks, sadistic Driver's Ed teacher! Those 'educational' car crash films were awesome and not at all damaging to a kid's psyche!). Taste-wise, you're basically pure cellulose - no real flavor, so you have to be gooped up with other, actually tasty fruit just to make you palatable, plus a bitter saccharin aftertaste that just makes the tons of sugar you require feel that much more insulting. Making dessert out of you is like making a jockstrap out of poison ivy - painfully uncomfortable, completely ineffective for the purpose, with lingering aftereffects that haunt you for life.

Then there was Passover 1990, when our mother decided that the best possible dessert to counteract a week without puffy foods would be some sort of raspberry-rhubarb concoction in a bowl that she called "Compote" and we called "Slops." A stringy pink colored goop that only afterwards she admitted she had also served for its laxative effect, to counteract the well-known indignity that matzah presents to the human bowel.  That's right: you were elevated to the pastry table not for your taste or delicacy, but simply to make us shit more. 

I think that fucking defines the term A New Low.  1/10.