I got to hang out with my three-year-old niece Abby last night. There is nothing better than having a child zerbert your stomach to put things into perspective. We had an imaginary conversation as Shaggy and Scoobie Doo. My incredible ‘Ruh Roh’ interpretation was lost on her, but it was a moment nonetheless.
When you are three, there aren’t any crazy social mores to worry about. As long as you don’t poop in your pants, you’re good to go. And giggling is your primary means of self-expression. It’s a good life, revolving around Pepperidge Farm goldfish and Elmo and a lot of pink, purple, and pale yellow. A three-year-old doesn’t have to do their taxes. A three-year-old isn’t overly dependent upon Starbucks. A three-year-old doesn’t have a freak-out when she realizes that you can see her navy blue bra through her turtleneck and spend the rest of the day clutching her blazer closed to hide the offending color bleed.
I may need to purchase a pack of crayons at lunch just to smell them.
Today is Fat Tuesday.
In celebration, the powers that be at my company brought in cake.
Don’t get me wrong. I like me some cake. Cake is great. Good times are to be had with cake. Cake is just grand.
But the frosting. Why in the name of all that is holy must frosting be made out of LARD?
Seriously. It’s so gross. Lard. It’s LARD people. Sure, they make little rosettes and pretty script writing but it’s still fricking LARD!
I mean, sure, there’s sugar in it, but if you took a big old steaming bucket of poo and dumped some confectioner’s sugar in it, would you eat that?
I realize that this is coming from the same girl who adores raw tuna, even though its more common name is bait, but hey, at least that tastes good. It doesn’t coat the inside of your mouth for two days with lardy schmeng. It’s not pretending to be anything other than what it is: raw fish. It’s ok with being raw fish. It is a food full of self-esteem, that sushi stuff. Lard has this whole PR thing going on, along with its friend Mayonnaise, which is raw egg mixed with oil somehow becoming something that is neither egg nor oil. I distrust chameleon food.
Except for whipped cream. Because that is just yum.
Anyway, I ate the bottom of the piece of cake and threw the frosting away, receiving many scornful looks from the Fat Tuesday Committee for wasting perfectly good lard.
Ok, I have various prizes to give out so I designed a quiz. Top three scorers will receive prizes to be decided upon by me. I still have that ass splinter’ that will probably be a part of one of the prizes’ as there is no finer piece of Weetabixanalia than the ass splinter. I’ve been told that it would fetch a hefty price on Ebay. I’m just saying. Also, another prize will probably be a Very Cool Pair Of Socks (new, natch). In the case of a tie, winners will be determined by a final question selected by me.
You can take the quiz HERE.
If you dare!
BWAHAHAHAHAHA!
(cue music of ominous foreboding)
Please only take the quiz once (don’t be a big cheater pants). Seriously. That ass splinter prize isn’t good enough to go and risk your moral fiber. Contest ends on Saturday.
