Thanks For Almost Nothing

April is one of those crazy birthday months.  Mine is on XX and then I know people who have birthdays on the 22, 23, 24, and the 25.  Nuts huh?

Well one of those birthdays was my mother-in-law’s and Susanne made a super yummy cake with chocolate frosting.  Yes, I had some, and yes it was divine.

Saturday night rolls around and I am in a bad way.  Meaning I just want to eat dammit, I don’t care how fat I get.  This is a similar feeling as “I want to get drunk tonight and I don’t care HOW crappy I feel in the morning” except when I binge, it’s a week before I can lose the weight.  At least with a hangover, a Sausage McMuffin with egg or a McGriddle (or both) and a couple Advil usually gets you through the one day of retribution for over binging.

I open the fridge and realize there is a tub of frosting in the fridge.  Oh my dear reader, I love to eat spoonful after spoonful of frosting straight out of the tub.  I love this even more than eating a spoonful of Nestlé's quick with a swig of milk (don’t knock it till you’ve tried it).

So I am thinking, oh yes, just one large spoonful and I will stop.

I pull it out of the fridge, pop the lid, and what do I see…

Now this is almost as bad as water boarding if you ask me.  Torture, just plain torture.

When I ask my wife why she saved the frosting, she replied “there was still some in there.” 

I called her a tease, and I meant it.

I guess it could have been worse.  It could have been leftovers. 

Oh, and yes, I scraped the bastard clean.