So I have that going for me! That's it. I feel like if I spruced up this blog a little, maybe I could really have something going. But. It's hard to balance a work day, a house, a baby, and a blog. One of those has to go to the bottom of the pile. At least I have a huge store of awful old stories to provide free content. This one is called Slutcakes, and it's about your mother!
Saturday morning; I sighed, scratched myself, and arose from the dead, a soul destined to walk another lonely day through the crooked streets of the city. I stumbled away from my bedroom, down the hall, and into the dining room, where last night’s empty pizza boxes decorated what had once been a handsome plastic picnic table purchased for ten dollars from K-Mart.
“Damn it,” I mused silently to myself. “Not another morning of Cap’n Crunch and chocolate milk.” Not that it didn’t have a particular charm, but this had been my breakfast every morning for the past twelve weeks, and I was getting sick and tired of it. Exploring my freezer, I found a cornucopia of hardened, brittle, cold entrees. Would I like a Cheese Cannelloni Lean Cuisine? Or a frozen can of orange juice? And yet far in the back, I found my salvation: a two-year-old box of frozen pancakes.
Frozen pancakes!! I was filled with delight. I popped two of them into my toaster and waited patiently. As they baked in the beautiful countertop appliance, I searched my cabinets for syrup. No luck – and yet here were ten packets of Splenda that I had stolen from a coffee shop one warm summer morning. “Oh, shit!” I cried delightedly, and immediately poured them into a stained coffee mug. I mixed the powder with a little water, microwaved it for a few seconds, and poured the syrup all over my now-hardened, browned pancakes.
As I wolfed down my breakfast, I thought, “Frozen pancakes are God’s gift to humanity. Why can’t the rest of my life be so simple? Why couldn’t I get sluts this easily?” I dug on it for a while, considering the implications. Imagine going down to the local grocery store and buying a box of SlutCakes from the freezer – just heat in the toaster oven and they’re ready to go! And then inspiration struck; lightning burst into my head the way it had burned the medulla oblongatas of such greats as Newton, Einstein, Daltrey. “Holy shit,” I thought. “SlutCakes is the most perfect name for a rock group in the world.”
That was it. That was the next stage of the game. That would be how I would make my name, make my fortune, make love. SlutCakes would tour the world; I would be a mega star. Women would love and adore me, fortunes awaited. But first, I realized, I need a band. How to get one?Well, the way that my uncle had gotten rid of his litter of kittens was to advertise them. The idea seemed sound, I shrugged. Tearing off the top of one of my discarded pizza boxes, I scrawled “SLUTCAKES! AN INCREDIBLE NEW REVOLUTION IN MUSIC! TRYOUTS TODAY.” As an afterthought, I scrawled down my name and phone number.
The next step was to find a telephone pole that faced enough traffic. I must have walked two or three miles before I found one at a busy intersection, and then I duct-taped my sign to the front. I put my hands on my hips and stood back, awed at the prodigious amount of work I’d achieved this morning. Two people honked at me and I waved happily at them, and then was confused by their angry grimaces and scowls. One guy rolled down the window and told me to eat it, and I shouted “SLUTCAKES FOREVER!” at him, and he gave me the finger. I didn’t know if maybe he was going to try out for my band later, so I waved at him, and then turned around and walked home.
While I waited for my phone to ring, I started drawing up a band logo. The first thing I drew was a big stack of pancakes with two boobs on it, but that looked like maybe pancakes with sunny side eggs on top. Then I drew some more boobs to show that these were indeed SlutCakes, but then it just looked like a big cyst, so I crumpled up the first sheet of paper.
The second thing I drew was the devil holding a scythe and making the sign of the devil. But I thought that would be confusing to most people, because why would the devil signal himself? So I threw that one away too.
The third logo was well underway when I realized that I was just copying off a Megadeth CD, and right then the phone rang.
“Hello, SlutCakes!” I said excitedly, and there was this long pause and I felt my heart sink. Sure enough, it was my mom calling to check in on me and ask me if I was going to give her the fifty bucks I owed her any time soon, and I had to tell her I didn’t have a job yet but I was working on it right now. My mom sighed and asked why I had called her SlutCakes when I picked up, so I started telling her and she interrupted and told me not to forget we were having dinner at her house on Tuesday night as usual. Then she hung up.
SlutCakes got its first official band member at 11:45 that morning. I was cutting my toenails and the phone rang. “Hello, this is SlutCakes speaking,” I said, having carefully modified my previous greeting.
“I saw…your ad,” said this slow, thick voice.
“Oh!” I said. “SlutCakes is indeed having tryouts today! What instrument do you play?”
There was this long pause, and then the voice said, “How much… are… SlutCakes?”
“I haven’t really thought that far yet,” I told him. “Maybe a three member band, maybe four. If we got a really good keyboard player we could have this really badass five piece unit, and it could go from there.”
The voice paused again, and then slowly, like a man clawing himself out of a deep grave, said: “SlutCakes… sounds…” and then he said a word that was like half word, half cough, and half gargle. Like maybe he said good, or maybe gay, or maybe elephant. I’m not sure, but it sounded cool.
“It’s awesome to have you aboard,” I told him. “First practice session is next week. See you then!” And I hung up, cheerful to be so far underway in the creation of SlutCakes.
I waited by the phone until 11 that night in hopes that someone else would call, but after that I wanted to get some dinner. So I got in my car and headed to the supermarket, singing the first song that I’d written for SlutCakes. It was called “SlutCakes Doesn’t Waffle” and it was probably the baddest of the badass songs ever written. It went like, “Sweeta than syrup / and smoky as bacon / can you smell the smells / that SlutCakes is makin’ / Delicious and fragrant / All fresh on your plate / These is the nastiest SlutCakes / A playa could bake!”
“HOT SLUT-CAKES! Oh yeah!” I shouted out as I pulled into the parking lot, finishing the last line of the chorus. And as I sat in the parking lot, looking through my wallet, making sure I had enough for the Little Debbie Brownies I was about to purchase, I had an epiphany. SlutCakes really would be the best band in the world, and I would be up to my ass in sluts by the end of the week. And as sure as God had graced me with my epiphany, I had another vision: just then, a girl walked by. And though I can’t be certain, I’m pretty sure she glanced at me – just once, just a quick peek. But she did not recoil and she did not wrinkle her nose, and to me, that indeed was a wonderful portent of the mystery and magic that SlutCakes would soon bring to my life.