Written by Charlie Van Horn

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Tags: cake, Local

Thursday, 17 February 2005

You’ve had it happen once, haven’t you? The day seems to be going perfect, when, for some unknown reason, a moment occurs and you wish that something, anything would happen to pull you from that moment? That time arose to me not no more than one half hour previous to this moment. It was unbearable.

I was at my local twenty-four hour diner, where the demented drunks wallow in pig fat, the elderly have cold ham sandwiches with coffee, and I compose grand thoughts about taking over the world, or at least the owners’ youngest Grecian daughter, when the incident took place. A man came in carrying a flat pan of carrot cake.

Now as unusual as this appeared to be, this was not that disturbing of a sight in this place. In my time I have spent there (hours upon hours wasted eating things made with parts of lambs. Or I hope was lamb) I have seen drunk teenage girls lose whatever they ate at Burger King previous, an old man lose all ability to function, and even a newspaper route driver upset that somebody had bought one USA-Today and left the rest on top of the box. It so happens’ this case wasn’t going to be as easy of a one to avoid as the rest.

Dealing with strangers on a business level is tolerable. You do so in an effort to acquire money or knowledge. Anytime you forced to have contact with persons not by your own choosing (or theirs) leads to a breakdown of mental cognition. Your mind races with thoughts on diseases, plagues, crimes, and if you actually do remember all those posters at the Post Office like you promised yourself you would. I steer toward being a ‘stare-at-the-floor’ anti-social myself, whilst others seem to go for the ‘f#$% off old man I’m eating’.

He was heavyset, somewhere in his mid-fifties to early sixties. Had one of those beards that originally was intended to be just a gentle, face accenting beard, but had instead turned into a place for food bits and wandering aircraft.

“Would you like some carrot cake?” the man said, in his bib overalls and free hat from somewhere.

“Eh….no” I replied, acting as interested as I could possibly be in a breakfast skillet at seven in the evening on a Wednesday. What followed is what really makes me wish I had signed up for a concealed weapon.

“Are you sure? They’re pretty good.” He insisted, acting absolutely unaware that my intentions towards actually consuming strange, rabbit themed pastries was in the realm of possibility that included slamming my testicles in a microwave door and hitting defrost.

“No, I’m fine. I eh, am going to be pretty full when I’m done with this, Thanks anyway though.” Hoping this would be enough; I filled my mouth with a large pile of eggs and mystery meat and prayed that my hint would be taken like Britney Spears’ at a mousekateer reunion.

He slid the flat pan of white-frosted carrot cake onto the table, gestured and said “I made plenty.”

I nodded with my mouth full and let out a muffled “Mnow Thwanks.”

What is it in people that make them think that being kind and sharing is an open invitation to be insane? Listen, I’m all for being polite and manners, but really, I’m not going to go home and hang myself because I wasn’t offered a piece of g&% d&#$ carrot cake.

If I were in a supermarket or store where a person in a smock is handing out bits of food, well, that is great. I understand that. You don’t see me cooking up a crock of mini-wieners and passing them out when I go to the movies, do you?

Listen, if you are one of these people who feel the need to feed others against their will, just remember. I don’t want to eat something from your house, a place I have never seen, which could be baseboard to rafter full of rats, bugs, and god knows what else. Whatever is in that food could possibly kill me, and who would be liable for that? It would be me for being dumb enough to consume it.

I know I shouldn’t be so harsh on the man, he was just being polite. And if you were wondering, the carrot cake wasn’t half bad, either.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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