Yesterday I went to Ralph’s in Studio City by myself. I usually have one or both sons in tow; strolling through the aisles unencumbered felt both nostalgic and novel. It was a real Calgon moment for old Brookie.
I saw that they had Birthday Cake Oreos. I don’t buy that trans-fatty Mississippi shit for my kids, but I definitely eat it myself. I threw them in the cart next to all the lame organic fruit, salmon etc. that I impose on my family. Suckers!
"Birthday cake" is my favorite flavor of anything. As a descriptor, it makes me laugh because we all know a birthday cake can be anything from Fudgie the Whale to a Princess situation. And yet, if you see a snack food or frozen novelty that claims to “birthday cake”-flavored, you know what it means. Yellow cake with white frosting and perhaps a suggestion of Blue No. 1. You know. BIRTHDAY CAKE. I love that flavor. Adore it.
I told the cashier (Sandra, who had been partying the night before, and was just about to clock off) to keep my Oreos seperate from the rest of the haul because I intended to eat them in the car privately. She gave me a weird look, but complied.
I placed the Oreos on the front seat of my car and peeled away the convenient self-adhesive Diabetes Flap that Oreos come with now. I began driving and eating the Oreos. For a brief, emotional moment, the sun came out. I mean that figuratively. The moment I start “Private Car Eating,” my serotonin levels surge past baseline and go supernova. The roof of my mom SUV becomes the shade of the bodhi tree; my knees and other attachment points seem to sublimate, I am limbless, I become happiness.
The moment passed as I realized that the Oreos were not exceptional. They taste like regular Oreos with a faint, buttery, cake-like foretaste. Honestly, I thought it would be big. I thought it was going to be like being butt-fucked by Duncan Hines. I expected something like the Ann-Margret pudding scene from Tommy, except with birthday cake. Imagine someone inserted a series of tan, medical-grade rubber hoses into all your orifices, then used a flywheel-type launch system to quickly, brutally deliver cake/frosting sludge into the network of hoses, killing you but also flooding your entire carcass with the memory of your fourth birthday party. That’s what I wanted, Nabisco.
I’ll eat the rest of them, but I’m disappointed! 2.5 stars.