The Second Step is Really Fucking Enjoying Your Problem

Occasionally, in real life, I'll run into someone who reads this blog.  And because there's nothing else interesting about me they'll say, "Hey, how's that Party Cake thing going?" (actual quote).  Or, "Had your Party Cake yet today?"  Or the like.

Well, let me tell you how that Party Cake thing is going:  We're having a baby!

A year ago, if you'll recall, the diabolical geniuses at Turkey Hill (not affiliated in any way with Hamas, no matter what you may have heard) made Party Cake - the ice cream with so much sugar and artificial coloring that it will get you high - a permanent stud in its flavor stable.  What happened next was predictable:  Gluttony, sweetener-based mood swings, stern admonishments from certified medical professionals.  Then, weirdly:  Saturation.

At some point, I decided I had had enough Party Cake.

I hadn't hit rock bottom.  I still had all my original limbs, some teeth.  A narrow brush with scurvy had been avoided.  My children still claimed they loved me.  I had just wearied of the Party Cake lifestyle.  I know!  It's like saying, "I'm tired of fucking my supermodel wife."  But that happens, believe you me.

I stopped buying Party Cake, stopped eating Party Cake.

One day, I looked in my grocer's freezer - just out of curiosity! - and all the Party Cake was gone.

I'm sure addiction specialists have a term for whatever form of denial I had gone through.  I didn't need Party Cake so long as I could take comfort in its existence; I didn't need it so long as I could choose to not have it.  I'd somehow substituted Pride for Craving.  But now it was gone and my ability to choose had disappeared.  I was helpless, empty.  Like, really empty.

Scenarios and rationalizations:  Had Party Cake not been popular enough to be continued?  (Impossible.)  Had the FDA finally looked into the matter and ordered an end to production?  (Probable.)  Had I been bad, was God-slash-Party Cake punishing me?  (Definitely.)

Life went on.  As much as life can go on without Party Cake.

Then.  A couple weeks ago.  It came back.  Parts of me started tingling at the sight of the carton.  The Frozen Food Aisle Dude had totally stocked up.  There were two solid rows of Party Cake Party Cake Party Cake.  Party Cake.

Cut to yesterday, when I see the How's-That-Party-Cake-Thing-Going Dude in the park.  "Whoa!" he said, pointing at my gut.  "When's it due?"  Hahahaha.  He then put a hand on my stomach, and I'd talk more about how inappropriate that was if something hadn't kicked.  I made a joke about acid reflux and backed away and ran home.

I don't know what's in there.  It gurgles and kicks and dances.  It does not like it when I do any sort of exercise.  It responds positively to reality television.  I can feel it thinking, I can sense it plotting.  I do not know when, or how, it plans to exit.  But I imagine that it's a being of pure Party Cakeness, striped with thick blue buttermilk icing and pocked with pieces of day-glo dough.  And I imagine that it'll be pretty yummy when it gets out.

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Okay, but you know what's really disgusting?  This KY Yours & Mine stuff.  Lessee:  I glaze my happyland with Substance A, you slather your wonderworld with Substance B.  Aren't there enough chemical reactions in play here without adding something that sounds an awful lot like epoxy into the mix?

Why don't I just strap some Mentos to my dick and fuck a thermos full of Diet Coke?

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tags: party cake  

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