One doesn't expect such cracks from cookies. One doesn't expect such
threats. Such insults. Such chutzpah.
It read: "You are doomed, be thankful."
Do I trust the cookie and meditate on this? Considering, of course, that it is in the nature of cookies to be duplicitous, what with the whole sugar thing: tasty, smile-inducing, comforting, while at the same time eroding your cardio-vascular health, drawing you toward the precipitous diabetic coma, and feeding all the shit bacteria in your system. I've driven myself into anemia on booze and oreos more than once; power-vomited as a child from eating too many peanut butter cookies; choked to near exhaustion after taking a dare on bolting a 6-inch Gingerbread man. A formidable foe, the cookie. Which just goes to support the premise that one can never be too sure with cookies.
"Well, so are you, cookie!" I shouted back at it defensively, crushing it in my fist, resenting its dimestore stab at crazy wisdom, and noticing as I did the cheap red and white plastic plate I'd just picked it up from that read: Thank You!
© 2002 Trebor Healey
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