Snow Day?

"I'll text you tomorrow that work is cancelled."

My boss gave us this hopeful news at the end of our staff meeting last night.  A blizzard was approaching and that meant I could sleep in due to work being cancelled. I found myself Cinnabon status in my bed; the covers were the warm cinnamon dough and my pajamas resembled hot icing.  I was ready for my big day (or lack thereof).

I awoke at 8am to check my phone to ensure my boss had not given me false promises the night before.  I pressed the home button sensually to ensure my phone had a nice, proper wake-up.  The screen lacked any texts, missed calls, or emails; only Ron Swanson (my background) stared back at me.  LIAR. FALSE PROPHET. BLASPHEMY.

My day now had to start because the weathermen of Maryland decided to rain on my parade. Actually no, that is not dramatic enough.  What they did was equivalent to sneaking into my house during Thanksgiving dinner, lick all the turkey, and claim it as their own.  Giving me the satisfaction of seeing a delicious future only to destroy it before my eyes.

As I looked outside I did not see snow, I saw flurries of white lies and lost hope.  To make my day even better, my car was covered in this stuff.  Instead of scraping the snow and ice off, I decided to leave it on in hopes that I might blindly drive into on coming traffic.  Unfortunately I made it safely to work and thus my day began.  I stood behind my desk pondering what evil brought this day upon my person.  Who had it out to get me?  I'll tell you who, Frosty the fucking Snowman.  That snowy motherfucker has been after me for 10 years...waiting for his moment to give me the yellow snow.

In my younger years I crossed paths with Frosty a few times, but one such occurrence is engrained in both of our memories.  Every snowstorm my next-door neighbor would construct this spawn of Satan, placing him so his beady black eyes could watch me sleep at night.  No one believed me, "it's just a snowman, he's not alive," they would say.  I know that collection of snowballs is behind every cold draft or chilly feeling.  One day I had enough and sought out to insult him in the best way I knew how.

I snuck out of my house in the early hours of the morning to find that cold creature sleeping.  What I did next was the middle finger in terms of the snow people.  I did what every young boy likes to do in the snow, change its color.  Yea that's right I peed on Frosty! I finished my deed with pride and fled to the safe zone--the fireplace.

This year we have not had much snow, therefore Frosty has not greeted me in my Baltimore neighborhood.  But I know where he is, he's up in the clouds waiting to fall.  I'm not gonna lie my foe got me good today.  I see his end game.  My pee only insulted him momentarily, his act was more sinister and had more consequences. He is the god of the snow and decided not to share his gift today. That selfish, low life, pile of nothing kept his bountiful treasure to himself.

Frosty the snowman was a disgusting, mean soul
With a broken arm and crooked nose
And a heart made out of coal.

Frosty the snowman destroyed fairy tales, they say
I made is snow yellow, and now I know
Why he ruined my life one day.

Frosty pissed on my dreams and my snow day.

The forgotten tops

Our class had been lucky lately.  Just last week our Professor brought in a box of homemade chocolate chip cookies for the class to feast upon while learning about ethics in Psychology.  What new surprise would greet our watering mouths today?

     It was blueberry muffins.  As I passed the tray to the next lucky classmate I gazed down upon my pastry.  The top shimmered like a lawn covered in morning dew; it maintained the correct ratio of moisture and fluffiness that every muffin should.  But as everyone knows there is always someone who wants to ruin your muffin eating experience.  Today that person sat three columns to the left of me dawning a red cardigan of destruction.
   
     My first bite went well. I was able to obtain a large portion of blueberries paired with an equally large portion of pastry.  I never got to experience a second bite. Red cardigan made sure of that.

     Sitting unevenly on her desk sat the top of her muffin. It had its bottom torn from beneath it. You don't do that! You don't!  I gave her the benefit of the doubt--maybe she was just saving the best part for last.  No, no she wasn't.
   
    That muffin top sat hopelessly on a dirty, crumpled napkin knowing it was never going to be eaten.  A muffin's sole purpose in life is to be eaten, and it could not even fulfill that.  I then turned my eyes towards the monster who decimated this innocent breakfast delight.  Her eyes had a mixture of disdain and joy.  A look only Lucifer himself could pull off.  All I could think was, why? Why eat only the bottom, questionably the worst part of the muffin, and leave the top?  Did she have a grievance towards muffin tops?

     There must be a story. I could not leave this situation unexplained.  It is possible muffin tops had wronged her in the past.  Flashback five years ago.  Red cardigan was a senior in high school.

     Prom was in a couple of months and being the progressive female that she was, decided to ask her date instead of waiting for the question.  She looked mediocre that day.  Her red cardigan was still stained from that Quiznos sub she inhaled at lunch...(sorry I am letting my personal bias against her muffin top hatred get in the way, she probably looked fine). Anyway. She was enjoying her post-lunch muffin.  She had eaten one at the same time everyday; it was her favorite part of the day. As per usual she ripped the bottom off, discarded it in the proper waste receptacle, and consumed the top.

     As she dove into a pumpernickel paradise her "date" caught her eye.  No time to waste, it was now or never.  With crumbs still on her lower lip she scurried in his direction.  She now had a difficult decision to make. She thought to herself, "Do I eat the rest now? Or do I hold it in my hand like an idiot?"  With the options weighed, she decided on the former.  She shoveled the cake-like-breakfast-pastry into her mouth sans water.  She was toast.  She couldn't even get the words out because the pumpernickel nightmare dried her mouth out like a sun dried raisin.  She choked not only on her words, but on the muffin top as well.  "Wangbdh goem....ehahhhhh," she vomited her words at him.

     Disgusted, the would be date, snarled and possibly dry heaved a little.  The answer was clearly no.  She soon was tasting her own tears.  They were salty and regretful.

     Back to present time now.  I saw her past and now I knew why that muffin top sat sadly on the napkin.  But before I could muster up enough courage to save it from its trashy fate, the muffin was en route to its demise.  She could have laid it gently in the trash; just show a little respect, c'mon.  She embarrassed that muffin top in front of all the other muffins.  She dropped it a couple of times on the way; each time it broke apart more and more.  I sat motionless in my seat, my face lost its color--I was witnessing a massacre...a muffin massacre.  Finally the top was put out of its misery, but not before she got the last word.  She pulled it close to her lips and whispered one final insult, so disgusting I cannot repeat it here.  It had to do with its ingredients, you don't mock a muffins ingredients, especially to its top.
 
    She embarrassed that muffin out of revenge.  Mark my words red cardigan, your time will come.  Muffins are feisty creatures and when the boysenberry boys hear about this insult to baking, they will come for you.  Mark my dough.