I’m Not Dead…Yet.
On Saturday, after an arduous day trying to entertain two small crotch parasites, I sat down, at long last, to a nice egg white omelet (pointless aside: don’t you HATE it when people call food “nice?” Like I could have been eating a MEAN egg white omelet or something).
After devouring approximately half of it, I realized what this Prankster needed: MOAR CAKE. (also: moar cowbell and moar vodka, but again, something that’s neither here nor there)
Happily, I remembered that just last weekend, The Guy On My Couch, Ben, had, upon my pathetic request, made me cake. It was especially delicious cake and I nearly bounded in to the kitchen to cut myself a piece.
Hrms, I thought to myself, that cake looks a little bit…soggy. Oh well, I thought, it’s probably soggy with MOAR delicious.
Overcome with my brilliant idear, I cut myself a piece, licking the frosting from my finger. Hrms, I thought, as Daver and Ben talked about something incredibly boring like life on Mars in the other room, that tastes a little, well, FUNNY. It’s probably my broken taste buds, right? I mean, you can’t chug hot sauce day in and day out without having something rot. Like my taste buds.
Not-quite-soothed, I stood there, trying to connect two misfiring synapses, a conclusion elusive. Something wasn’t quite…right.
But…what? I rolled the piece of frosting around in my mouth, thinking.
After several minutes, standing in the kitchen, blinking stupidly, I leaned down to smell the cake.
Rotten.
It was rotten.
I spat out the piece of frosting and immediately guzzled antibacterial hand gel. Ugh. I was probably going to die from poisoned cake. What an inelegant way to go.
So I did what any potentially dying person would do: I went to Target. Figured my family would want to some food in the house as they mourned my untimely death. I waited for the bright light, the singing of angels, the fiery pit of hell to open and swallow me whole in Aisle 6. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
I had, thankfully, eluded Death’s cold embrace.
The following day, I woke up to no wracking stomach pains, no feverish death bed, a little disappointed. I had, after all, eaten poisoned cake. I should’ve at least ran a fever so I could mope about the house, bitterly bemoaning my fate, shrieking WHY GOD WHY? at random intervals. But…nothing.
Eventually, I got bored and decided that what this Prankster needed was MOAR MOVIE. I don’t typically like movies, but once in a blue moon, I’m all MUST.SEE.MOVIE. So we rented the last two Harry Potter movies and prepared the big television downstairs for our invasion.
As Daver was hooking up the DVD thingy, I realized that what stood in front of me, what had to be moved, was a lamp. You probably own this very same lamp.
I call it the Boob Lamp.
Many, many years ago, I lifted the Boob Lamp, attempting to move it, and slammed it into the ceiling of the basement, where it lived. That shattered the boob, into a ton of plastic bits, but, rather than dump the thing like I should’ve, it remained in the basement, a lone, sad lightbulb shining blindingly.
Last night, when I was all IT’S MOVIE TIME, Y’ALL, I stupidly ignored my self-imposed “don’t touch stuff” rule, grabbed the boob lamp, and lifted it. Not taking into consideration the height of the basement ceiling. Or, really, my propensity toward breaking shit.
I stood there, thinking about delicious cake, and deliberately smashed the lamp into the ceiling. For the second time.
This time, however, there was no boob to protect me.
The cake long-forgotten, I stood there, now bathed in the shards of a broken lightbulb. I stood there dumbly, blinking shards of glass into my eyes, as Daver and Ben ran around, getting vacuums and cleaning up after me.
(insert blinded by the light joke here)
I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be dead by now. If you need me, I’ll be hiding in a hole somewhere, trying to evade Death.
I just promised to cook. I never promised to watch things afterward to make sure they were still healthy to eat and not-rotting.
Oh Becky, Becky, Becky, Becky, Becky, McBeck: Rotten Cake? I haz a sad.
The worst part of it is that you should probably stay off the interwebz today and rest your bloody eyeballs. (Isn’t eyeballs a funny word? Say it a bunch & I dare you to disagree)
I actually have two of those boob lights. I never thought of them as boobs but now will consider them a pair belonging in some gigantic over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder.
Umm that whole hiding in a whole to avoid death thing? It only worked for Sadaam for like 3 weeks. You might pick a better place if you have any long range plans….
In a HOLE…I”m an idiot. On the Internet no less.
I just commented the other day that I sounded like Nancy Carrigan screaming “Why, Why Me?” It has been one of those months!
that’s two.. these things usually come in threes… I definitely recommend hiding somewhere so as to avoid death…….. he sounds like he’s got it in for you
I’ve never heard of rotten cake. This makes me sad. I guess I’ve never let cake exist long enough to go rotten.
At my house a cake doesn’t last long enough to get rotten. In the blink of an eye, a cake magically becomes nothing but crumbs on a spinning plate.
OMG! I know those boob lamps! But what I hate even more (I have two of them and I swore I would never get them but they came in a pack of two for like $30 and I needed some lighting in my apartment DESPERATELY!) are the Boob ceiling lights. They are round, pop out and totally have nipples that hold the whole thing together.
Funny thing is I just looked them up at Home Depot so I could post the pic and you could see what I was talking about and I found out they are now EVEN CHEAPER than $30! Stupid prices…
http://www.homedepot.com/Lighting-Fans-Indoor-Lighting-Indoor-Ceiling-Lighting-Ceiling-Mount-Lights/h_d1/N-5yc1vZbvm1Z1z10gov/R-202642208/h_d2/ProductDisplay?langId=-1&storeId=10051&catalogId=10053
I am impressed and somewhat saddened that the cake managed to survive long enough to rot. Should you ever have another cake in danger of such a fate, send it my way. I am known around these parts for my ability to decimate cakes in five minutes or less.
BLINDED BY THE LIGHT REVVED UP LIKE A DEUCE ANOTHER RUNNER IN THE NIGHT…
DAMN YOU
Clearly that guy on your couch is out to get you. I’m willing to bet upwards of elventy million internets he is attempting to off you and then secretly replace you with…..HIMSELF!
I hope so much you had one of those old light bulbs in the boob lamp, because you know those new twisty ones will kill you, right? The government has a bazillion step process for cleaning them up if they break (which I will now link here because these instructions strike fear into my heart and I shouldn’t be the only one having light-bulb-induced nightmares tonight http://www.epa.gov/cfl/cflcleanup-detailed.html ).
Hahahha. 1. The build up to you saying what was wrong with the cake had me totally skeeved out. I was all “DON’T DO IT DON’T TO IT SOMETHINGS WRONG OH GOD WHAT IS IT IS IT BUGS OH GOD OH NO DON’T DO IT.” Shudder.
2. I have like three of those lamps. And have never realized the boob thing. Of course, now, it’s all i see.
I know for a fact that floor cake is far, far better than rotten cake.
Death via cake? It seems like a glamorous way to go!
But, I’m glad you’re not dead! I would have to find another form of entertainment while I’m at work.
Damn you. Now I have to blog about rotten potatoes!
Rotten cake makes me The Sad.
It’s like that movie. Final Destination, right? You’re aluding Death. But that’s good, the heroine always survivies in the end.
Aunt Becky! FOR SHAME.
Also, for shame on you for getting away with eating rotten cake while I had to suffer and swear I was dying of the 24-Hour-Stomach-Bug-Of-Hell on Monday, all because I wanted to come see my niece. I THOUGHT MY TORSO WOULD RIP ME APART. AND ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS DRINK HAND SANITIZER.
*huffs off*