My fucking colon is killing me, as it's pretty much impacted to the hilt with about three sleeves of Girl Scout Thin Mints and a half-a-tray of Samoas. The cookies that Miss O sold for her Brownie troop came in this weekend and we've got boxes coming out the ying-yang.
We ordered probably 10 boxes -- a buncha Thin Mints, some Trefoils for the Old Lady, my precious Samoas, some All-Abouts and a coupla Do-Si-Dos. My parents ordered 12 boxes, but at the last minute my mom called and said, "You know, we don't really eat those cookies, so why don't you just keep them." Thanks mom -- I'll name my soon to be prolapsed rectum after you.
Mr. Z created a pretty bitchin' chart of the cookies we have hangin' around, waiting to be et:
If you look closely at the "All Abouts," he changed the cookie text to read "Girlscouts is (not) all about girls." You go, Mr. Z -- Title IX works both ways! My little Norma Rae.
Ow -- cramp! Holy fuck, these cookies are killing me. What are these girls putting in these fuckers? Let's see... partially hydrogenated palm kernel oil... dextrose... carrageenan... Carrageenan?! What the fuck are brownies doing messin' around with carrageenan? Isn't that made by boiling the flayed hides of dead Webelos?
That does it, one more sleeve of Thin Mints and then I'm cutting myself off for the night. And maybe eight more Samoas. And three Tagalongs... but then that's it. And a Do-Si-Do.
