So, I went to get him a birthday cake. The birthday cake wasn't for him, actually, it was for his guests. He's allergic to the stuff in most cakes, so we make him a remarkably healthy cake made with honey and almond flour and tastes like regurgitated sawdTASTES AWESOME, HI HONEY! GOOD MORNING! JUST WRITING IN MY BLOG.
Coldstone has this cool interface online. You can play around with different flavor ice creams and decorations. You can even order a tiny, tiny cake and order them to write "Hey, man, I couldn't afford to get you a bigger cake, but I loves you anyway. By the way, did you know there's no character limit on how big the message on a cake can be?" Somewhere there's a Coldstone employee with a microscope and a tiny bag of frosting having a nervous breakdown.
Note: A cruel man would put offensive words on the cake, just to see their faces when he picked it up. However, I'd never make them write "Hope this tastes better than your dick" or "Heil Hitler" or "Send the ransom money before this cake melts, or you'll never see your husband again." No. Not me.
I arrived at the store a few hours before the party and asked for it from the woman behind the counter. Her face fell.
"It wasn't made," she said. "The manager is the only one who can decorate cakes, and he's not here. He turned his phone off, so I can't call him. You're the fifth person who didn't get their cake."
This was one of those situations you see in sitcoms that leads to wacky hijinks.
"Oh no!" the mother, played by Lucille Ball, cries.
"Waaaaah!" the child, played by Mara Wilson, cries.
"I'll fix it!" the father, played by Steve Martin, cries.
Then, using a twelve-pack of pre-made pudding cups, three rolls of duct tape, and latte foam, he constructs something disgusting that, when the guests try it, turns out to be awesome and saves the day.
Yeah, I have hijinks, but they never end up wacky. My hijinks end up with medical bills and a three-week suspended sentence.
As I was looking for other Coldstones in the area that might make me a cake really fast, the employee brought one out from the back. It was completely different from what I ordered, but what other choice did I have?
"I'm not allowed to decorate it, but you can," she said.
"Sure!" I said. "I took a cake decorating class back in the 90s. I'll just write the message myself. Nobody will notice."
She handed me a blue tube of frosting and a cup with six Butterfinger bars. As the frosting bag sprung a leak and squirted blue icing all over my hands, I realized the danger of letting your son type the message in on an online form with no character limit.
With each letter I drew, the message I planned to write shortened.
Happy Birthday to You, Simon! became
Happy Birthday, Simon! became
Happy Birthday! became...
|Happy Barf Day|
|Just plain old BARF|