Okay, so my uncle-in-law DJs weddings, and last night he scored some uneaten wedding cake. Apparently the bride had many normal-size-cakes made for each table of guests, instead of one monster cake for the whole reception. and not all of them were cut into. So uncle-in-law got a whole, unblemished mini wedding cake, which he brought to new years. Nobody wanted any. “It’s too sweet,” they say. “Chocolate chip cake is weird.” “I ate too much pork.” So at the end of the night, there was still a whole, virgin wedding cake. “Does D want it?” they ask.
It”s white cake with white icing and clear sprinkles that are really crunchy the way my teeth are going to be after having eaten it. And there are dark chocolate chips in it. And it was some spoiled rich Princess Bridezilla’s special cake, on her special, special day. It tastes delicious, I think, as I eat chunks of it with my grubby fists, and crumbs fall on my craptastic kitchen floor. mrhranangh….
Has everybody heard the original karma cake story?
It was the first year of college, and I decided to be one of the fifteen people who stayed the summer. At the end of summer, I was completely and totally impoverished a full week before class was to start. I’d just moved out of summer housing, where we all lived, into the next year’s residence, which had been closed for the previous three months. Everyone else went home for that week, and the dining hall wasn’t open till the first day of class. So there I was, in the middle of nowhere, with no food. I managed to survive the first two days on a massive raw zucchini (someone had brought it into the last day of my summer job), with the help of a shaker of salt. After that I went a few days without eating at all. I finally sneaked into the basement of my dorm and checked out the communal refrigerator, and found a whole birthday cake minus one piece.
I looked around shiftily, and ninja-like, scooped the cake into a paper bag and absconded with it. (Actually, I don’t even remember where I got the paper bag.) I chuckled, wild-eyed, the whole way back to my room. I flipped on the half-lights and the door clicked shut behind me. I slid the cake out of its paper wrapping, then removed the plastic lid. I lovingly cut myself a piece of the gratuitously stolen birthday cake of someone I didn’t even know, and set it aside. I found myself a clean metal fork. “No cheapening this cake with a plastic fork,” I thought, “it meant a great deal to someone and should be treated with respect. After all, I only stole out of a sense of survival.” I picked the plate of cake back up and took a bite.
It was stale as an effing rock. “And that’s what I get,” I thought, before my smile even crumpled, “for being low enough to steal someone’s birthday cake.” Bleeeeaaaagh, ptthhththththttt.
(No worries. Someone took me out for Long John Silver’s within a day or two. The smell of the vinegar alone made me feel faint, and I tore into that thing like a… starving college student. Within a few days the cafeteria was open again, and all was well.)