Bad Cake


“Hey Grandma, this piece of cake tastes awful, and it smells like mothballs.”
I said this with a horrible look on my face, then spit the cake out on my paper plate.

“Bobbie, Davie,–Stevie–”
She always called me by my brothers names before she got to mine.
“Don’t eat it! Give it to Butchie.”

I passed it down to her rotund dog Butchie. He ate it in three seconds, then went in on the plush carpet and got violently ill.
“Oh, look what my Butchie did!” She was straining and sweating as she wiped it up,
and she may have broken wind, because when I entered the room, the smell was horrendous.

I left her house without eating anything.
My appetite had vanished, and I was glad I didn’t eat that cake.


Breakfast is Served


When I returned to work, I served a breakfast of French Texas toast, Virginia bacon,
and fresh fruit. It was a success.

Mrs. Shaede said, “Stephen, are going to bring my bran muffin, or did you eat it?”
She is ninety-five and in a wheelchair. When I look at her, she puffs out her cheeks and points to my belly, which hangs out of my shirt.
“I’ll get your muffin, Mrs. Shaede.”
Now she is cutting the seeds out of her morning banana. She doesn’t eat banana seeds.

Mrs. Kleinfeld requires six prunes every morning. She walks around all day bent over, and I spread a rumor among the staff that the prunes have her locked in a farting position.

It was a long hard day.