Moose in the Kitchen

Sam, I haven’t even met you yet and already I have to admit that I am a terrible, terrible person. Note for anyone who ever wants to enter the cookie contest: make sure to send your address quickly. If you don’t, I MAY JUST EAT YOUR COOKIES:

At 9:37 p.m. last night, the temptation proved too great. I wrenched open the package labelled with Sam’s address and started shoving cookies into my mouth. In a manner that would have proven highly embarrassing were anyone in the room with me. I then shoved the remainder of the cookies back in the box, stuffed it in a drawer, and ran to the bathroom and chopped up a Hershey’s bar with a razor and snorted it off the counter.

Someone call Betty Ford and tell her to lock up the chocolate chips.

I’m sorry, Sam. I will make you more. I tried to take the package to the post office this morning, but the line was out the door and I was already late to work. I tried to take the package to the post office on my lunch break, but the line was ten deep and I desperately needed chicken. I tried to take it after work, but the post office was already closed.

Dear Post Office,

What the hell? It was only 5:40. Aren’t you people supposed to stay open longer? It’s my right as an American to be able to send a package after 5:30 p.m. Please work on that.

Love, Moose

Even as I opened the package I was attempting to justify my reprehensible actions. “I baked these cookies days ago. They’re already a bit stale. If I sent them tomorrow, they’d have crumbled to dust by the time Sam receives them. A truly good person would dispose of these stale cookies and bake up a fresh batch….”

But sheer, unadulterated greed can’t be explained way so easily.

The awful truth was a bout of unhappiness. And we all know that the only reasonable solution to a mild depressive state is a cookie. Or, to be completely accurate, multiple cookies. Shoved en masse into a wide open craw. Millions of large Americans agree: cookies are the responsible solution to every unpleasant emotion.

Sam, you will get fresh cookies sometime soon. I will be forced to live with the weight of my actions and the censure of my peers – and a few extra cookies.