file under codename “bitsy big-boy boomeroo”
At the beginning it was just a humble, tea-cup sized yellow cake, probably made by leprechauns. Simple, harmless. Shortly thereafter, though, soccer moms factored in and suddenly everything was all bake sales and sprinkles, giving rise to a flock of Augustus Gloops – chubby kids with chocolate all over their faces. Disregarding the childhood obesity, it was still paper-tigers to this point. Some time later, the hipsters jumped on board. What seemed a momentary, dreamlike renaissance, was no more than the ritual slaughter of the goose the laid the golden egg. All the skinny jeans, ironic t-shirts and Pabst Blue Ribbon in the world couldn’t prevent the celebrity chef cartel from piling on, trafficking in $10 cupcakes. Cupcake addiction skyrocketed. The wheels were off. Now: bedazzled handbags, cupcake cars, and diamond encrusted cupcakes – Roman excess never wasted like this.
But all that’s pure subterfuge. A red herring. We stand prisoner to an underground cupcake cabal. We always have. A shadowy syndicate of merciless kingmakers. Not leprechauns. Not home economists. Not kids – fat or cool or both. Not dough punchers. Fat cats with hidden hands. Hidden, ninja-like, hands. Hands with credible assured consumption capability. Hands with heavy artillery. A stockpile of weapons of mass confection – we’re talking the Fat Man. First they will make it rain cake in our mouths like we’re drinking it from a fire hose.