Having My Cake

God knows I love cake. I am by nature a pretty generous man. I would share my last dime with a begger on the street. I would give the shirt off my back to a man in need. If you want a handout, come to me. That is the kind of guy I always have been.

My one downfall, the thing I do not like to share is cake. I have been called stingy, and a miser when it comes to sharing cake. No one gets cake at my birthday, and I do not smile and offer children a slice of ice-topped wonder.

God knows, I would do almost anything for more. He also knows I hate cockroaches. There they were, boiling out around the knife as I cut the cake. How the hell did they get in there? Why would they invade the one sinful delight I have left?

I had expected a slice of chocolate frosted heaven. Up the handle, across my fingers march the nasty vermin. To my arm, across my shoulders and toward my face scurried 10,000 or more. Their legs scrabbled for purchase and tickled the hairs, making my entire body tickle and itch.

My skin crawled as I opened my mouth to scream. They began to rush into the opening.

I was about to have my cake and eat it too.



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