Dear Cupcakes

I don't really drink anymore, and I never liked drugs, so I don't understand how I was so oblivious to your rise to power.  There hasn't been such an upsettingly absurd misplacement of praise since Jethro Tull took home the Grammy for Best Heavy Metal Album.  Things have gotten so bad that I am waiting for the FDA to classify you as a restricted addictive narcotic, because people have gone out of their damn  minds when it comes to cupcakes.

I am not saying that cupcakes are not delicious.  I am saying that the nationwide acclaim that has suddenly been bestowed upon them has normally been reserved for pop artists or Youtube sensations.  There are no less than three television shows dedicated to cupcake bakers, while there are no longer any television programs dedicated to pirate captain Black Jack Savage, or any of his 100 Lives.  My small county has three different cupcakes barons, and the cupcake warfare has taken to the streets.  Blood and frosting have mingled into a deadly and coppery tasting topping.

I was out running some errands, and happened across one of these dens of icing laden iniquity.  Thinking I would do something nice for my mother, who is fond of these dough grenades, I went in to buy a dozen.  I should have become alarmed when I saw that the menu was written out all on chalkboards, with different colored chalk and cutesy little pictures.  I cannot name a worthwhile foodstuff that I have ever consumed that had been written in chalk on slate.  Chalkboard menus are the restaurant's way of trying to convey "Look, we are quaint and cute!"  What they are saying is that their business model is flawed, and they are making it easier when the hipster coffee shop moves in to their recently vacated building next week and needs someplace to write their menu. Anyway, looking at the menu, I find such strange cupcakes as "Strawberry Lemonade", "Orange Soda", and "Shirley Temple".  My diabetes actually exploded just reading those.  They sounded about as appetizing as trying to shotgun a pint glass of dry Tang powder.  It was at this time, when I thought I couldn't have been less happy to be there, that I turned my head slightly to the right, and saw the true face of evil.

That was where I saw the prices.  When I walked into the store, I thought I might be able to get a dozen cupcakes for maybe $5 or $6.  That's roughly what it costs to buy bagel or doughnuts, so I didn't think that as unreasonable.  Each of these pastel covered confections cost $3. There was a break to buy four of them for $10.

The only reasons anyone should ever pay $3 apiece for a damn cupcake is if it:
1) Contains the antidote to what has poisoned you.
2) Has a golden ticket baked inside of it that lets you into Willy Wonka's Factory. 
3) It was once owned by Henry Rollins.  He would stare at it and laugh as he used his mind to burn fat and create even more muscle on his body.

You know the only baked good that is worth that kind of money?  Gooey Butter Cake.  Know what that is?  You take butter, cream cheese, the smiles of the angels, eggs, dragon's tears, and vanilla cake mix, and you make a gooey, orgasm inducing treat that is better than any cupcake that was ever made.

You can order one right here: http://fritzsbakery.com/category/goodies_menu/  That place was down the street from my grandmother's house, and I would fight hobos to the death from here to Bensalem to get one. And guess what you depraved cupcake snobs?  A large, which is as big as any sheet cake that a grocery store would charge $20 for, only costs $9.95.

$9.95 for the second best thing you will have ever put in your mouth sounds like a pretty good deal, doesn't it?