Recently my wife, Miranda Kopfschmertzen, and I went to the market to pick up some grocery staples (milk, eggs, vegetables…). We were on our way back from many other errands (and eating excessive quantities of delicious Indian food) and as our shopping list was brief my wife suggested that I just drop her off and let her run in and out. When I pulled up to the market entrance, doom loomed over us; the Girl Scouts were waiting, like a mobster gang waiting for their “protection” pay.
My wife, Miranda Kopfschmertzen, cursed them, “Crap! I’d rather walk through the picket line than have to brave the cookies.”
I dropped off my wife, Miranda Kopfschmertzen, and circled my truck (my oh, so manly truck) around the parking lot a few times. (I had once read that stopping your car for a few minutes then restarting it was worse for the environment than letting it run. For whatever reason, that has stuck with me and I circled.) Shortly after the drop off, my wife, Miranda Kopfschmertzen, emerged from the market. She had but one grocery bag, yet two items in her arms total. Her head was hung in shame. She had given in. Like a junkie who just realized they had run right out of smack, she had given in.
“They jumped me, Baby. Forced me to buy some. I had no choice. Did you see it? Two of them sat on me and a third one took the cash, PLUS TIP, right from my wallet. Oh well, I guess I’d better have some,” she whimpered in an obvious say-it-quickly-because-it-is-an-absurd-cover-story sort of way. She fumbled open the box and delighted in its contents. Guilt melted away.
Curse you Girl Scouts. Curse you and your $4 boxes of delicious, fascist cookies. May a nation’s worth of cookie fiends be ever on your conscience.