Joy of Children
Comments: Total crack.
Saw a news show about a woman who stole money from her school's PTA and sabotaged a bake sale and of course Minato popped into my head.
If I have to see one more cupcake, I'll kill myself.
Heaven help the successful career I've built or the adorable son I'll leave behind—because if I catch even a whiff of creamy sugar coated goodness, I'm outta here. Off to a better place, as they say, and I'll tell you one thing—there won't be any ready-to-make boxes of cake mix waiting for me at the pearly gates.
Haha. Oh God, no.
Because hell hath no fury like a Minato scorned—and if God were to take one look at my kitchen's current condition, he wouldn't want to put anything flammable within reaching distance of lil' ol' me.
Haha. Don't believe it? Try me.
Don't get me wrong though, I'm not a bad cook—my son can definitely vouch for me on that one. Give me a chef's hat and I'll make you the best damn grilled cheese sandwich you've ever had. And tomato soup? A little dippage for the melt-in-your-mouth cheesy goodness? No problemo. Give me a can opener and you've got yourself the single parents' award winning 'my dad can cook anything' dish.
Ask the kids, you'll see.
No, my problem is with cupcakes.
Not the cute little Hostess ones with the cute little white twirly ribbon design on top; the ones that take effort to make. You know what I'm talking about too, don't you?
The ones that require box upon box of sugar flavored flour, a kid size swimming pool's amount of corn oil and milk, a nest of eggs and a frickin' whisk because I'm a guy and I refuse to buy a blender.
What the hell am I going to blend in the near future, anyway? A smoothie?
Yeah, no, probably not. And it's not because I'm lazy, either. Just practical. Any straight male blending himself meals deserves healthcare enough to see a psychiatrist.
And as much as I'm sure you'd love to hear my theories on that subject, we're getting off topic. Veer to the left—focus, focus.
You with me? Good.
'Cause I'm still hatin' on cupcakes.
Not the movie, though I could talk about that for hours, too. Not 300 completely kick ass men battling their way into history and blood flying all artistically everywhere (how those movie people do it I'll never know).
Vanilla, chocolate—mixed because I couldn't get the retarded goop off the whisk… yeah. And why?
Put on your Sherlock hat because here come some clues:
They're mostly women. Older women, too. The kind that sift around like ghosts and scare the shit out of you at student teacher conferences because you couldn't tell them apart from the newest 1st grade mural.
And talkers, too.
Don't get me wrong, I like women. And I, as a male species living in a female world, know the importance of a woman's voice.
But these women. They're like that relative with the hearing aid—the one who talks too loud and can't tell when everyone else is speaking… Only they don't have a disability.
They're just crazy.
Calling at frickin' 11 at night asking for cupcakes. For a bake sale. From me no less.
How the heck did they even get my phone number?
Yeah, you heard me. PTA—some jacked up excuse for parent bonding. If I was supposed to feel more bonded after my adventure in the kitchen, they should evaluate their methods. Cause I'd rather kill myself than look at another cupcake again.
Exaggerate? Me? Never.
But I do see your point. If I killed myself it wouldn't be too nice for Naruto and god bless the little kid's heart, he's helping me load my car with the army of little pastries. It's times like these where I figure I done good.
I wonder where he's gonna fit in the car on the way to this shindig anyway? I mean, have you ever seen 300 cupcakes in a car?
It's like an ocean of frosting.
Oh, God, what if Kakashi sees me on the road? I'll forever be one of those scapegoats at the job…
Eh, well, if I do happen to pass one and he just so happens to see and comment, Naruto's a damn good aim. And we got 300 cupcakes to spare. Don't diss the dad. All I did was pick up the phone. How was I supposed to know it was destiny?
This isn't the first time PTA has royally screwed me over and I figure, boys will be boys. And I'm a boy at heart. For real.
First step, park in reserved spot. Haha Ms. PTA president—enjoy your long walk in heels that don't fit.
"Dad, are you alright?"
Better believe it.