You are dead to me. Ever since a shop on at least every-other-block in Seattle decided to festoon their windows with week-old versions of you, hawking each for upwards of $4.00 a pop, I have wished you a slow, painful end.
Cupcake- you are as bad as the word “moist”. A moist cupcake is the worst thing I can visualize behind closed eyes. Except for a moist, yummy cupcake in my pants. “Yummy” and “pants” round out the ménage a quatre of words I loathe with the immensity of a bovine boner.
Cupcake- you are old news. You are just like the crabs you caught in college that stuck around while you were taking the GRE for admission to grad school that made you itch so bad you only scored a 300 and are now pumping gas in Boring, Oregon. I can still see those clawed creatures inching their way across your coconut cream frosting. Both of you need to delouse yourselves with a crab comb made from porcupine quills and succumb to the raking pain.
Cupcake- no matter how you gussy yourself up, you still look like shit on the inside. Literally. Your brown crumb disintegrates in the mouths of greedy children like diarrhea in a flushing toilet bowl. Every brushstroke of buttercream and glob of ganache you smear on your gaping face only strengthens the fact that you are the Joan Rivers of the baked goods world. But unlike Joan, you don’t have a passel of cabanas all over the globe and enough disposable income to support a poolboy in every one.
Cupcake, you are less than Joan Rivers. Even SHE snagged a husband, albeit one who chose heaven over her after he contemplated their wedded future. You will never be married because you are poor and squat. If we were living in old-school Native American days and you somehow managed to lure a mate because poor squatness didn’t matter as much back then, he would soon banish you to grunt in a menstrual hut ALL the time, not just when you were on your period, you little red velvet trollop.
Cupcake- you are as cloying as Sarah Palin, and you’re almost as dumb. They make reality shows about your “handlers” just like they make them about the people who do Sexy Sarah’s hair. In case you were wondering, Big Hair Alaska promises to be equally as mentally-stimulating as Cupcake Wars. The fact that both of you induce reality shows the way ipecac induces retching is a coincidence that is not lost on intelligent America, aka the vast majority of us who see through your saccharine charm.
On the outside you and Sarah are cute, despite the fact that you’re both older than a loaf of cracked wheat bread in Gluten Free Girl’s house, but it’s not hard to spot your inner vitriol. One bite of you and one listen to Sarah makes me seize up and twitch like a junkie in jail. Your fop of fondant is slicker than the tiny patch of oily ocean that, according to Sarah, separates Alaska from Russia by a coupla football fields. Not to mention that Sarah’s bouffant after a rough-and-tumble day snowmobiling with her son grandson lovechild looks just like your freshly-shellacked frosting at Trophy Cupcakes.
Cupcake, in surely your most loathsome incarnation, you have been liquored up and bottled as vodka. Yes, cupcake vodka exists in this world. No wonder war, famine and illiteracy plague us- people are too busy solving other problems, like HOW TO TURN FUCKING CUPCAKES INTO VODKA!
I mean really, why cupcake vodka? Is it so skinny sorority bitches can taste the cold comfort of lemon chiffon before they puke it back up and blame their bulimia on the more socially acceptable disease called “like, oh my gawd, I got SOOOO wasted last night”? There is something so wrong with this picture I’m going to have to stop painting it right now and just rip the canvas into tatters the way Vincent Van Gogh might have if he were hopped up on performance enhancers like Mike Tyson.
Cupcake, it’s time. You should have perished along with the plucky pioneer who invented you back in the 19th century. Please, cupcake, for the love of humanity and all things delicious but not yummy in the world, disappear the way of fanny packs and Milli Vanilli before I have to lead an anti-cupcake crusade myself. I can assure you, a cupcake massacre is not a pretty sight, as anyone who has attended a toddler birthday party can attest. Go now. Go quietly. Do go gentle into that good night.