COVERED IN EVIL ICING

Out of the blue, my apartment mate gave voice to a strong opinion.
Pursuant nothing at all she mentioned baked goods.
There was an irritated edge to her voice.
This was serious business.


"You know what the problem is with cupcakes? Cupcakes are like artificial bosoms, AND they're too trendy!"


"I'd rather have real cake!"


We all want that, Honey-Pie. Real cake. And real bosoms. Although judging by the boombalicious bombshell hanging on the arm of someone twice her age whom I saw recently, some men are Donald Trump. Or J. Howard Marshall. Or Donald T. Sterling, of whom you have also heard.

That's three men who like cupcakes.

In the same manner as my apartment mate, I too would wish for real cake, and real bosoms. Either one of those things could make me very happy, and if they happened to coincide -- their welcome presence came to be at the same time and in the same place, preferably either an apartment in which I was present or sharing a table in a gemütliches coffee shop -- it would restore my faith in humanity.

Which is at a low ebb at present, due to a vast surfeit of both cupcakes and artificial bosoms.

How did cupcakes end up being the hip and fashionable celebratory sacrament?

Cupcakes are just as nasty as fake boobs.

All fluff with a sugary overload.

Soft poofy confections.

Stressed sponge.



I have reason to doubt that my apartment mate is quite as concerned about breasts as I am. She'll likely be satisfied with just the cake.




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