There’s a Nicely Formed Hostess Cupcake in my Parking Garage

I was actually going to refer to it as “pristine” but after looking over these pictures, I realize that wouldn’t fly on E-bay, so it shouldn’t be allowed to fly here.

I was just walking down to throw out my previous night’s empty Stoli bottles, and there it was, clear as day! It’s just a few inches away from the back tire of my building manager’s car – the building manager who instead of installing an exhaust fan over my stove, allows it to remain capped at the top with duct tape, leading to a kitchen that smells like my Monday meal until at least Thursday, and paints a coat of grime and grease from the ceiling to the floor.


“Eat me! Eat me! I’m still good,” the little cuppy pleaded…


For it’s placement, and composure, it certainly doesn’t look like it just fell out of someone’s Safeway bag. This really looks like intentional placement, frosting side up, vanilla swirly-swirls undaunted by human hands, ever so close to the back tire of the car that belongs to my building manager, who pulled my fire alarms out of the ceiling and left them on the floor of my living room because they always go off to alarm me to the ever-increasing clouds of smoke that accumulate in my kitchen and filter into every room in the house whenever I am frying up buffalo burgers for a quick snack.


But look at the placement. Was someone trying to be cute here?


Much like the search for quality real estate, the placement of a Hostess cupcake when used as a prop in a larger prank relies on one thing – LOCATION! LOCATION! LOCATION!

Which is why it was a good thing I found the wayward little snackcake, and gave it the re-positining it so desperately deserved…

<a href=”http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/7073/2338/1600/483567/Hostess%
20Cupcake%20Car.jpg”><img style=”float:center;
margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;” src=”http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/7073/2338/320/739858/Hostess%20Cupcake%20Car.jpg&#8221; border=”0″ alt=”” />

…directly under the tire of the car that belongs to my building manager, who refuses to fix my garbage disposal whenever I actually put garbage down it, because according to him, it’s not for “food” it’s for “scraps,” AND who gives me crap when I leave my empty car wash bucket under the back stairs for a day when he hasn’t hosed down the filthy steps that lead to our apartment doors in ages AND who was apparently needing to work through something really severe the night he screamed at me in the doorway for leaving restaurant menus at the bottom of the landing, when there is of course, no way of knowing who might have done so since they don’t have address labels on them.


Well, I’m laughing, even if you aren’t.

This isn’t very Christian of me, is it.

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