Carrot Cake: Desert Of Cheap, Health Food Bastard Chumps

We’ve all been here before:

You get to a party. Birthday party, whatever. That doesn’t really matter. It could be any kind of party. Anniversary. Graduation. Christmas. Doesn’t really matter how old you are either, lets say you’re still innocent, you know, 8 years old (since kids now have sex at the age of 12 and start doing heavy drugs by the time they enter middle school. I know this has something to do with giraffes, the NSA and most likely conservatives, but I have yet to make the link between all these. This will be forthcoming in a later page, if I feel like writing up the expose. You can start reading the actual page again now).

You’re having a great time playing grabass, or whatever kids that age do at birthday parties. Listen to the Jackson 5 or some other kid friendly pop music that rots your brain. Kids should be listening to rap music at that age, and visiting crack houses. Or maybe, instead of listen to shitty music, go out in the woods and play ‘hide the salami’ with opposite members of gender using their half functional genitals. Or pop balloons, or beat the shit out of each other. In fact, I don’t really know at all what kids do these days. Play video games? Back in my day, we played in the fucking mud, because our parents were too cheap to get us anything more than that. When the mud caked to our bodies, we got washed off by the hose. In the winter. In the snow. With tears on our faces. Which froze as they were shed. We are tougher than these little wankers of contemporary America.

Anyway, the kids are all playing and shit, and the mom comes out and does the cake countdown. All the kids gather around, because you know that kids love singing. Not that I really did. In fact, that was the most awkward part of birthday parties. Everyone would look around at each other wondering why the fuck we’re singing this stupid song for some kid we don’t really like, some kid whose party we got invited to because mom is in the church/baking/PTA/townhall council/jedi council/Satanic cult with them. The kid smells chronically, has big ass glasses and a huge nose that seems to be rotting, all this making him look like something out of Lord of The Rings, but we go anyway, because we figure we can score some good loot and maybe play hide the salami with the girl from your 2^nd grade class. She’d been eyeing your piece for awhile now, and you figure you can show her how clay really works.

So after all that singing bullshit is over and done with, Johnny’s mom comes out with the cake and all the candles. Now, and only now, do you realize that Johnny has to blow out the candles and has horrible allergies all the time, part of the reason why hanging out with him sucks. So you watch with gross fascination as he takes a deep breath to blow the candles out and sneezes all over the fucking cake. Spittle everywhere. You look at your buddies and sigh, because you know you’re going to be eating his snot along with delicious icing, but his snot nonetheless. But like any good 8 year old, you forget about 3 seconds later because you know its cake. Johnny’s mom forgets too, because she’s stupid.

But this isn’t just any cake. It’s a fucking carrot cake. Of all insults to an 8 year old’s mouth, this is perhaps the worst. You look at the tiny carrot bits on the icing on the top of the cake and realize the horror. You and the other children look at each other in confusion. Johnny’s mom begins her admission:

Kids: WHAT KIND OF CAKE IS IT MRS. JOHNNY’S MOM?

JM: Why, it’s a carrot cake kids, gotta stay healthy!

Kids: wtf?

Basically, whenever this happened, I just wanted to scream. Didn’t matter what age I was, I just wanted to scream at Johnny’s mom, “YOU STUPID BITCH”. Why?

Because you don’t go to a party to be healthy. You go to a party to abuse your 10 year old body, because you don’t give a shit. Johnny’s mom REALLY made the cake because she’s going to eat the leftovers after all the kids go home in an attempt to be healthy. Little does she know that its probably just as bad for you anyway. The kids will run off those calories, but Johnny’s mom is a stupid bitch and will just eat all the carrot cake and watch soap operas. She doesn’t realize she’s mortal like everyone else and that some fucking root tubers aren’t going to increase her lifespan. At all. GODAMMIT JOHNNY’S MOM. MY TIME, RUINED. GIVE ME MY HALF HOUR BACK.

As a result, you hate Johnny and his mom. In your wildest fantasies, they are summarily kicked out of the baking circle or however your mom met them and sent to East Jabib so they can work in the salt mines under the watch of the Giraffes. Because every Giraffe knows that when you fuck with cake, you’re committing the worst of crimes against humanity.

This is to all my friends out there who have ever gone to a party and found out that the cake, the raison d’etre of the party itself, is made with a bunch of fucking carrots.

I mean, after all, who puts vegetables in cake? Do you put celery in cake? What about TOMATOS?

Tomato Cake, a delicacy if you’re in a mental institution or the Stupid House. Or the salt mines of the giraffe overlords.

Now, before you feed me that bullshit that tomatoes are fruits, lemme tell you not to bother, because you’re full of shit. It might be in the fruit family, but that’s like telling me a monkey can sit in the classroom because its in the same family as people. You know, on the other hand, most monkeys probably wouldn’t make carrot cake given the choice.

-Coco