I forgot to mention that at S.R.'s Graduation from Baking School party, he had baked a chocolate cake. A lovely cake, about a foot long or so, in the shape of a penis with perfectly spherical balls. And as if that wasn't enough fun, the words "Eat Me" were written in white glaze down the chocolate frosted shaft. A sight to behold as he held it up to his face for someone to photograph.
He brought it in to work the following Monday, to share the remainder with the staff. By the time I showed up, most of it had been devoured, just a couple of vaguely round clumps of cake lay in the pan in the kitchen.
At some point in the evening, M. "I'm Jewish, not Puerto Rican" B. showed up on her day off to pick up something with her ex-boyfriend from Canada, spied the cake, threw a clump on a plate and ran up to hide behind my counter to stuff her face.
"You realize you have a penis in your mouth?"
And today, she threw me some attitude, so I called her a Cakesucker; that's right, I called her a Cakesucker.
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