Political Correctness

That was My God Damn Cookie

Saturday morning there were 3 cookies left — the Savage-family chocolate chip cookies made by the House Elf with just the right amount of crack.

“Those are for you and your brother,” the Bear said. “You figure out how to share them.”

I eyed my brother, the fruit plantation owner. My face said,  ‘I’m getting mine.’  He nodded.

Two hours later we prepped for a 20-mile bike ride.  It’s cold and full of snow in Twisp, Washington, so he’s in Gilbert, Arizona, to get outside in the soft winter sun.

I grabbed my water and noticed, 2 cookies were gone.

“Fucking selfish asshole,” I thought.  But that’s par for the course.  There were 3 cookies and 2 people — someone was going to get 2 cookies.  He was raised right. There’s no half-cookie-eating pansies in this family.  Respect.  I said nothing.

We ride.  The wind was pushing back against every stroke of the pedal.  I’m wearing long sleeves, panting and working up a sweat.

We turn and glide home in a tailwind, and my thoughts turn to the most pleasant of day dreams…

Chocolate-Chip-Cookie-with-milkMan,  that cookie is going to taste good when I get home…

Coffee or milk?  Soooo good with coffee.  But it’s past 2 p.m.  Milk’s better in the afternoon…

Yeah, milk. Just a splash — just enough to hold the crumbs of chocolate and crack together.

I came back to my home. And MY GOD DAMN COOKIE WAS GONE!

“Well, you were the one stupid enough to leave it there,” the Bear said.

My brother smiled and grunted like the little shithead he can be.  “Don’t look at me,” he said.  “I left you one.”

And all my childhood traumas started to wash over me.  I’m such a lucky shit.  I didn’t have beatings or sex abuse or what we would have called bullying or hazing in the 70’s. (I’m sure all of my childhood would qualify as bullying, hazing or neglect by 2019 standards — but that’s bullshit for another story).

Sure, sure there were the knuckle bustings at catholic school, and the days I had to clean the school hallways and floors with a toothbrush.

Nothing, I tell ya, nothing compared to the trauma and drama of some asshole eating all the cake… but worse is someone you love taking the last cookie right out of your mouth.

  • Ohh the betrayal
  • Ohh the mendacity
  • Ohh the selfish arrogance of the 1 percent

The pop psychologists say there are 9 steps to dealing with childhood traumas from “grounding it, recalling it, and sensing it” – to finally “letting it go.”


Ok, Ok.  I can “sense it” and “let this go.”  There’s no need to keep yelling at the Bear for taking my cookie.  I would probably do the same to her. That’s the kind of shit spouses are for.

But you know what I can’t fucking let go…    This feeling that I still want to punch Joe Rogers in the face.  Four years ago I watched him nibble at a quarter of a cookie and walk away. (You gotta read this story to understand the details.)

Who the fuck would throw away most of a cookie when someone else on the planet spends half a day dreaming about eating just one cookie with just the right amount of milk after spinning on a bike for 2 fucking hours?

Joe Fucking Rogers, that’s who.

Now you all know why he will always be a goddamn, quarter-cookie eating, little fucking pussy to me.


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