I wish to withdraw my previous post regarding cupcakes. Please delete it from your mind. There is no underground cupcake cabal — it does not exist. It was an ill-conceived and dangerous fabrication based on spurious information. Sure this blog isn’t the wheel-horse of investigative journalism, but that doesn’t give me the right to peddle lawless apocrypha. I really put my readership in the stew. People could have been hurt. Over what — cupcakes? And why? Because I took a handful of wooden nickels from a crooked finger without doing the pains? Well, that fat mouth isn’t going to lead me down the garden path and just get away with it. I can guarantee you that much. I’ll get him, stick his hand in a blender, blow up his goldfish. I don’t know. Send him a message. Something. It won’t be a trip to Cleveland, that’s for sure. I’d like him to try to give me the soft soap again — I’ll tie his kidneys in a Pratt knot and make him wear them to a fancy dinner party.
Still let’s assume for a moment that such a hole-and-corner cupcake outfit did exist — a half-literate, rank and file idiot-stick with a blog is going to bulldoze it? Were I a little more critical this obvious fact might have prevented me from making this mistake at all. Somehow I was able to get up in the kool-aid of a secretive social club without the aid of dynamite or disguise? Not even a fake Mark Twain mustache? Just had it laid down for me by some dude and then I go chop it up on the internet? Really? I must have been on the toot. Like a ring-tailed lemur in the streets of Antananarivo after Famadihana. And as though the cupcake mafia’s going to let that pass like everything’s applejacks? Not likely. I’m duck soup to an octopus of that kind. It’d be the big blue pencil for me long before I could breathe a word of it to anyone. Besides, I don’t want that kind of weight.
I don’t mean to be down on myself, but the fact is I was one sandwich short of a picnic here. A cupcake cannon doesn’t mean sweet Fanny Adams. It’s a sledgehammer for cracking nuts is all. Worse yet, it turns out the cake catapulting technology was developed by a t-shirt company, not a sinister set of pastry pirates hired out to the long underwear gang. Yes, the world needs dreamers, but that’s no reason to serve up flank steak instead of London broil. For that I am sorry.