As I have made abundantly and belligerently clear, I made some fucking amazing, fandangtastic, scrumbumdiddlyumptious cookies for the Holiday Bake-Off 2007 cookie contest.
I secured tins for these mightily addicting concoctions of absolute sweetness, one each per judging location. I carefully wrapped my cookies, if such a meager word can be used in the description of my creations, in layers of wax paper so that they would travel securely and arrive uncrumbed. I sealed the tins with packing tape, so that they would not dry out and stalefy while in angel's flight to their sweet princes and princesses of judgery.
I made one critical error in this process. I took them to a store with which I have a somewhat troubled history. One of the brothers of indeterminate number was a former employee of this shipping and packing establishment. This may have had something to do with the events that happened next.
I paid for a detailed packing job with involving bubble wrap and a box to convey my cookies, if such an ordinary word can be used in the description of my creations. The unfortunate events happened after I paid a high price for security and shipping and left the store. Somehow, a "miscommunication" and a "misunderstanding" lead my tins of cookies to be wrapped in a paper bag, labeled, and shipped. This faulty, insufficient, and EXPENSIVE label tore off during shipment. The packages were sent back to the store whence they came and I was notified over the Christianic Holy Weekend of Saturnalia of this "MISTAKE".
I exclaimed with a clamor!
How could this be? I prepared with such rigor!
On the day I arrived in the store to inquire after the packages I had hoped would be enshrined on the judges' mantles, I met two employees. Two employees who were having a lovely day eating my cookies, if such an insignificant word can be used in the description of my creations. THEY WERE EATING MY FUCKING COOKIES. They were eating my fucking cookies. They were eating the cookies over which I had slaved and slaved. They were eating the carefully written messages of hope! They were eating my good tidings! They were eating my in jokes! They were eating my cobagz! They were eating my fucking cookies!
I retained a leash upon my temper and did not succumb to the temptation to burn the building to the ground and salt the earth upon which it stood. I asked them why they had opened my pakcage and begun eating the contents. They said that they had found them on the counter and thought the tins were gifts for having to work the day after the holy day. I called the manager and she flew down with a dash. We exchanged unpleasantries and harsh words. I am ashamed to admit that at one point I implied physical violence after she admitted that she might have had something to do with the faulty packing job. An offhand comment to a new employee resulted in the completely worthless paper bag packing job.
In the end, I was refunded the money that I spent on the packing ($60). The manager gave me a song and dance about the shipping fees and how the store was not a franchise, it was a corporate location and she could not offer refunds for the shipping in this situation. She also said that since I had not insured the packages that she was not liable for her employees eating them. I was apoplectic with rage and told her to, "eat a steaming pile of dogshit" and gave her a suggestion as to where she could find some. Then I left.*
I was enraged!
I was infuriated!
I left the store in a huff,
I let loose a mighty bellow!
I was sad!
I was mad!
I wanted to run in the buff,
I was indeed not mellow!
The truly disappointing part was that my cookies will never be tasted by judges and declared without doubt the winners for all time, all universes, and all realities. I was able to bring some to my other brother's, of indeterminate number, house for consumption by his family and my aunt. They all thought they were amazing and extremely impressed. My brother's mother in law, a grandmother, asked if I had used beer in the recipe, but if I had she didn't mind because they were excellent. My aunt, another grandmother, also said that these cookies were wonderful and was surprised that I had produced a cookie, if such a boring word can be used in the description of my creations, of such quality.
Since both of these women are grandmothers and since everyone agrees that grandma made the best cookies, I feel safe in declaring myself the Winner In Absentia of the Holiday Bake-Off 2007.