The Cake Incident

Many of you have asked me why I don’t drink. I could say that it is because pills are so much better but that would only be half the answer. The other half comes in hundreds, maybe thousands, of individual reasons. The Cake Incident is but one of those reasons.

 

Costa Rica is a lush subtropical paradise replete with an amazing array of wildlife, beautiful jungles with lush flora and fauna and white sand beaches that boast the best surf in Central America. It was in this idyllic setting that I almost either became a political prisoner, minus the politics, or became Jaguar kibble and bits. And bits. And bits. –Sorry, that was probably an OCD thing where I had to type all that because that was how it sounded in my head and if you all didn’t ‘hear’ it the way I did then the world would suffer a zombie apocalypse. And I didn’t want to be the cause of that.

 

We had been there for a week, surfing, almost dying while surfing, doing coke, playing with the monkeys and drinking excessively. Well I had anyway, my wife pretty much lay in the sun and did respectable people’ things. By this time I could tell that my hard vacationing lifestyle was beginning to take its toll and make her irritated and ragey. I figured it out by the way she was yelling at me and telling me to go pet the poison darts frogs and feed the coral snake. Because I’m perceptive like that.

Who’s a cutsy little dartsy frog? You are, yes, yes you are!!

 

I decided to go down to the beach and have a few more vodkas while I ate my dinner of the little green olives that came with my vodkas while I figured out how to make her stop wanting to kill me. Not drinking was too easy, it never would have worked. After a few more drinks I forgot what I was trying to figure out and went home in a ‘spectacular’ mood. By ‘spectacular’ I mean obliviated. But when I got home Wifey was all murdery again just because it was 3am, like I’m somehow responsible for the linear qualities of time and space. – I wasn’t responsible for that but I don’t think she ‘understood’ that.

 

That’s when it dawned on me like a cartoon thought bubble, “She loves chocolate and she loves cake! Both chocolate and cake seem to make her more happy and less murdery! If I could find her an amalgamation of the two, a chocolate cake if you will, she’ll be powerless against the delightful concoction! Not only will she forget about murder but she’ll probably turn into a motherfucking leprechaun and lead me to a basket of blood diamonds!” –I’m not really sure why I thought the last part; I get weird and delusional when I’m that drunk. Then I realized that I had seen such a cake while I drank vodka and she ate dinner the day before, and so I knew I had my solution.

I like Leprechauns. But I don’t like midgets. Midgets don't have any godamn diamonds!

It was without word or warning that I set out upon my quest to subdue Wifey with a chocolate cake, and possibly find a cashe of ill-gotten diamonds in the process. The only problem was that due to my inability to manipulate time it was now past 3am and I had very little motor control or brain power left in my arsenal.

 

I made my way through the jungle paths that connected our cottage with the rest of the hotel and the restaurant. After getting lost a few times and falling down a few times I finally found the open air restaurant. It was pitch black and completely deserted. This didn’t faze me at all. I simply climbed the little fence that separated the kitchen from the restaurant, fell down, climbed it again, then fell down on the inside part.  I rummaged through a few refrigerators until I found the ‘forgiveness cake’ for Wifey and a bunch of cooked hamburger patties for me. I was already stealing food; I might as well have a bite too, right? So I sat on the kitchen floor and ate hamburger patties covered in ketchup until I started to feel sick. I then threw the cake (which was in a box) over the fence and somehow managed to get back over it myself. 

Sure, it looks safe here. You didn't see it at 3am with criminals running around with their spoils.

I tried to make my way back to Wifey with my noble gesture but I got lost and felt sick, so I decided to fall into the weeds of the jungle 10 feet off the path and pass out until security from the hotel found me.

 

My plan worked to perfection. They also apparently knew how I’d come upon the crushed box of cake on my chest as well, due to the well placed and monitored security cameras throughout the property. After yelling at me in Spanish they brought me to my cottage and made Wifey promise not to let me out again that night.

 

I’m really lucky that they found me at all and even luckier that they didn’t have me arrested but they’re probably used to drunk people trying to steal cake for their pissed off wives. They didn’t let her have the cake though, even after all my effort. I’ll bet they were ‘on the take’ and ate the crushed up cake and that’s why they let me off, now that I think about it.  

Like this, but with cake instead of guns or blow.

Afterward she seemed twice as murdery for some reason. Probably because she got screwed out of her cake by the dirty security men and it made her bitter. So in the spirit of compromise I promised to cut down a little, and did, for the rest of the trip.

 

That’s one reason that I don’t drink anymore; because it severely impairs my ability to steal cake.