Let’s talk creepy old men, shall we?
Dude, I don’t even understand how they function.
What possesses someone to ask a young, bright-eyed girl with a cutie cupcake tattoo “what flavor is your cupcake?” with gross, wiggly eyebrows whilst licking your lips?
(Yes, someone asked me that)
It’s like, I’m sorry you’re basically a morbidly obese version of Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite except living vicariously through your somewhat-attractive-looking son who is probably some popular football star at the local high school and brings home gaggles of girls who you probably corner in the kitchen while they’re getting a water and ask them weird questions to make them squirm.
But you’re like, pushing fifty now and while I don’t see that as old per se, I do see it as too old to be fishing for validation from a twenty-one year old girl with a cupcake tattoo or the local cheerleading squad.
Most* girls don’t like older, creepy men who were assaulting cologne and weigh five hundred pounds. I say most because there are those select few with a multitude of issues who seek out only the creepiest of men. For those, see most porn stars, everyone starring on Jerry Springer or Maury, and perhaps more than half of the Playboy centerfolds.
I know that while I like that Jessie’s older, and wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to dating an even older guy, I don’t much have a liking for someone who assaults me with their eyeballs as they order a hot pastrami on rye.
Or one who is basically the Fat Bastard Big Bad Wolf and I am the wee little red riding hood, just trying to earn a living at a small little food establishment and not looking for weirdos to ask me to spit in his sandwich or ask me what flavor my cupcake is which I am fully aware is not an innocent question but some big, fat, gross double entendre that I know he wanted me to fall into.
And in retrospect, seeing as no matter what I do in the range of ‘normal’ makes him leer and be gross toward me, I should have responded with something equally gross and disturbing. Most would have said “wouldn’t you like to know?” or “what flavor do you think it is?” or fallen to the trap and responded dumbly “vanilla” or laughed awkwardly like I did.
But what if I had looked him dead in the eye and deadpanned, “the blood of sacrificial goats.” Or “poison.” Or “the poop from the upset stomach of a baby fed nothing but cruciferous vegetables.”
I think if this man heard I eat cupcakes that taste like goat’s blood, he’d probably back off and never look me in the eye again. Which would be a good thing since eye contact with about 98% of people freaks me out.
So next time… I’ll figure out a way to let him know my little guilty pleasure. Then world will spread like wildfire and I’ll forever be left alone by creepy guys… until I meet that one who also takes a liking to cauliflower baby poop. And I don’t even want to think about that hurtle.
Anywho, if I had magic powers I’d eradicate all the creeps from the world, but unfortunately I lack the magic powers gene. I do, however, have monster magic… and by that, I mean Monster Magic Cookie Dough Pie.
Like if monster cookies and magic cookie bars had a baby and it was pie.
1 9″ graham cracker pie crust
1 tube refrigerated chocolate chip cookie dough, at room temperature
1/2 cup crunchy peanut butter
1 cup miniature M&M’s
1 cup butterscotch chips
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup shredded coconut
1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Place the pie crust on top of a foil-lined rimmed baking sheet.
2. Cut the tube of cookie dough into large chunks and place them in the pie crust. Drop dollops of the peanut butter on top of the cookie dough pieces.
3. Sprinkle the top of the peanut butter/cookie dough mixture with the butterscotch chips choco chips, M&M’s and coconut.
4. Bake the pie for approx. 20-25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted near the center comes out mostly clean and the center is mostly set (read: not too jiggly). Allow the pie to cool completely before cutting into slices.
5. Store leftover pie covered with foil at room temperature for about 1-2 days.
Have a great day! Today my hair gets fixed–yay! Happy I will no longer look like a brunette Sideshow Bob–cause to celebrate with some pie, methinks.