Have Your Cake, and, Erm, Eat it too…
So you wanted a post about cakes, eh Chrissy?
**Warning: Rude content**
Once upon a time we went to America and we were presented with a cake so vile and oh so anatomically correct that I suspect all of the women in the room immediately ran to the bathroom with mirrors and torches to compare their nether-regions to the magnificent glistening icing, that was representative of a trio of assorted female genitalia.
On a cake.
There was a jaunty little script at the bottom that said, “Welcome, ya bunch of *#%$.”
I’m not sure what the collective noun for such a gathering is, but I think it should either be a committee, or a cosy.
A cosy of
(The word that I dare not write, lest my Mum read this post and I be castigated.)
Every inch of my being wants to show you the photo of said c-cake, but I dare not, lest this blog be labelled as porn, and I am relegated to the
literary internet dustbin.
The photo of this cake is neatly tucked away in the back of the photo album labelled “USA 2003”, and I delight at the thought that one day when I am all but dust, some descendant will look through the blurry, bland images of Denver and Vegas and Hawaii and come to this final little pearl and wonder, “What the fuck was that all about?”
They might flip back through the photos, trying to glean some hint as to why there ever was such a cake, who made it, and what happened to it after that first staged snapshot.
Well in case that never happens, I’ll tell you the story.
Not about the how and the who, but what happened next:
Every single thing that you might imagine happening to a cake festooned with a cosy of vaginae, happened.
At first we were shy to approach her. As if she might bite, or something even worse. Then as the evening wore on, and we gathered our courage from the bottom of our Bud Lights, we became more enamoured of her subtle curves. We started to sidle up to her, make a few lewd inferences, and the boldest among us even tried to touch her up… There may have been a Donald Moment or two.
The rest of what happened is a little fuzzy, but I will tell you, that in the morning there was a pile of crumbs were the cake had been, no-one seemed to know where the the members of the cosy had gotten to, but Stanly The Pug had a dollop of pink icing on his nose that looked suspiciously like a clitoris.
I just hope that there were no American Pie moments.
…From The Ashers