So, my department ordered Chinese food for lunch. After a sinfully yummy meal of chicken fried rice and an egg roll, I opened up the wrapping on my fortune cookie and crack the shell of baked (are they baked) goodness to reveal the knowledge hidden within. My fortune:
(Smiles are verbatim).
First of all, I’m pretty sure Confucius never said that. I mean, I’m a little rusty on the Analects, sure, but I think I would’ve remembered that one. They could at least cite the chapter if it’s a paraphrase or something. I mean, god, didn’t they ever have to take Freshman Comp? Sheesh.
Secondly, where does the fortune cookie get off insulting me? Are you saying that I can’t satisfy my husband? Are you accusing me of being a slut? I’ve taken on better pastries than you, cookie-boy; ask the pound cake what I did to the baklava. Yeah, that was me, bitch. Respect.
Thirdly, why is the cookie smiling at me as it says this? I mean, if there were some kind of infidelity that I didn’t know about, wouldn’t a sympathetic frown be better? It seems kind of callous and cruel to find joy in the discomfort of others. Especially when you had the audacity to deliver the message embedded in my dessert. There’s got to be an Emily Post column on this somewhere.
Then, on the back, it lists my lucky Lotto numbers: 2, 4, 5, 27, 28, 36. Yeah, like I’m going to play those numbers now. It’s poor consolation for having your virtue tarnished. I mean, okay, if the numbers actually worked, then it would be pretty good consolation, but we all know it doesn’t. It’s like having the chick who picked you up at a bar leaving you with a vague feeling of being dirty and a phone number that turns out to be the number for the local Little Caesar’s.