If our Homeland Security policy revolved around my ability to make a cookie…
…we’d all be having sex with camels right now.
You know…
…more than usual.
On a related note, my junk smells like Al Qaeda.
I’ve digressed.
I had the honor of staying with my daughter the other day while my ex-wife took my son to a birthday party where he was the only boy invited.
Afterward, my ex-wife told me that all the girls were all over him – hugging him, holding his hand.
The kid, I tell you, is a playah.
Don’t think that I don’t know that girls also flock like this to homosexual men.
But I’m sticking with the notion that he’s a ladies man.
It’s how I stop myself from crying myself to sleep.
Regardless, with my daughter by my side, I planned on taking her out to lunch. Maybe to the mall. You know, having a nice day out in general.
Then, my ex-wife reached down and removed my testicles.
Again.
Ex-Wife: “Oh. While you’re out, go get her a new leotard.”
*ploink
(that’s the sound of my left nut being removed)
Me: “What’s a leotard look like?”
Son: “Well dad, it’s a…”
Me: “YOU ARE NOT GAY!”
Sorry. Sorry.
Ex-Wife: “You’re not serious, are you? You don’t know what a leotard is?”
Me: “Of course I know.”
(I have no idea)
Fine. I’ll stop and get her a leotard.
At least I still have one ball left.
Ex-Wife: “Oh – and when you get home, you two can bake Snickerdoodles!”
*ploink
DAMMIT WOMAN!
Snickerdoodles.
A Snickerdoodle is a cookie. A wonderful, delicious cookie.
I know this, because my ex-wife always used to make Snickerdoodles with the kids – and then I would then eat 43 of them within 20 minutes.
THEY’RE SNICKERLICIOUS!! (trademark pending)
But I’ve never MADE a Snickerdoodle.
Before I knew that a Snickerdoodle was a cookie, I thought it was the thing that my college girlfriend used to do to my bunghole when I was drunk enough to let her.
Tequila numbs my sphincter.
The more you know.
Ex-Wife: “They’re the easiest cookie in the world to make. I’ll email you the recipe – you already have everything you’ll need and I’ll pack you some that we just made this week for reference.”
Fine. We’ll make Snickerdoodles.
Me: “Here, honey, I’ve saved you some time and snapped my penis off for you.”
First stop – the leotard.
We stopped at the local Walmart where – for the first time ever – I was not greeted by anyone.
No elderly man.
No elderly woman.
No person with some distinct mental handicap.
No person with no visible deformities but still harboring a deep desire to KILL KILL KILL THE INFIDELS IN MY HEAD!!!!
No one. Kinda depressing.
Like Cinderella said, “You don’t know what you’ve got…till it’s gone.”
I miss the 80’s.
After wandering around the Girl’s Department in Walmart for a half-hour looking for a leotard we finally found one in the ‘socks’ section (how is this thing possibly footwear?) and headed home.
Snickerdoodle time.
(queue MC Hammer)
For being “one of the easiest cookies to make,” I have to tell you that the sheer amount of crap you have to put into a cookie kind of threw me off guard.
My kitchen island looked like afterbirth while I was trying to make these things.
Shit. Everywhere.
After not softening the butter enough, and realizing that I had two different mixer-spinny-things in the mixer which almost broke the damn thing, and telling my daughter to NOT LICK YOUR HANDS THOSE WERE RAW EGGS, and deciding to nuke the batter to melt the butter a little and then making big balls of dough (hey! Maybe I can attach THESE!) we were ready to cook those little bastards.
They didn’t cook.
I gave up trying to cook them when they went 4 minutes over the time the recipe said to cook them and they still looked like my nuts on a hot summer day.
(note to myself to try sprinkling cinnamon sugar on my nads…the dog should like that)
I looked at MY cookies.
I looked at the old batch my ex-wife gave me for snacks.
My ex-wife’s cookies actually looked like cookies.
My cookies looked like giant piles of light brown shit.
Daughter: “Maybe we should just start over.”
Me: “Screw that. Eat your goddamn cookies.”
Ungrateful little shit.
Here I am having quality time with my daughter making undercooked, giant Salmonella-infested shit-looking cookies while my kitchen looks like a rhino tried having sex with a box of flour in here…
…and she wants to START OVER!?!?
I don’t think so.
Next time, I’m doing the birthday party thing.
At least I can watch my son score 7 year old chicks at the rollerskating party.
Yeah, it was a rollerskating party.
That’s manly, right?
RIGHT?!?!
I’m crying myself to sleep tonight. I just know it.
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