On the joy of cookies
that look like her arse
Laura’s been making a lot of cookie dough lately
As such, Ricky and I have been eating a lot of cookies.
Laura’s cookies?
Well, They’re from the Betty Crocker cookbook.
And those?
Those are perfect cookies.
Hippies have tried to improve them with stupid ingredients.
You know those self-flagellating monsters who attempt to turn a delicious snack into health food.
And the cookie, ends up tasting worse than the sand I put in a box in my basement for my cat to piss in.
They take a perfectly good cookie and ruin it with some dietary sensitivity trend of the week.
Stevia?
Carob?
Flax?
Fuck that garbage, they might as well fill the cookies with trimmings from their hair-shirts.
If these fuckers made fortune cookies, instead of saving banal shit like Be slow to speak and quick to act they’d say shit like Check your privilege or Educate yourself.
I guess that wouldn’t be so bad.
You could treat these silly little messages from the holier than thou with the same reverence as you would a fortune cookie fortune.
These cookies are great. Hold on to that lady of yours Jimmy.
Ricky is right.
Her cookies don’t just feed us on the road.
They bring me home.
If Laura’s cookies are baked with love, they’re finished with her most delicious element.
Humour.
Some fortune cookies attempt to be wise.
Others, may seek to shame.
But this lady?
She’s pure game.
She bakes me ginger cookies shaped like her butt cheeks.
And let me tell you dear reader, they are delicious.
And me?
I may not have a fortune, but my god, I’m fortunate that she’s my cookie.
Stay sweet dear reader and may the tooth beavers ravage your mouth as you sleep.
