The C*NT CAKE

To this day, I don't know how the conversation steered toward types of cakes.

I was 15 years old, on my way into Boston with three friends to attend the rasslin' matches. Scott was on my left in the back seat, Mito to my right. Mike sat up front in the passenger seat since his mom was driving us. And, as I say, the conversation inexplicably turned toward cakes.

In the confines of the back seat, someone insisted that some cake in question was a Bundt cake. Someone else just as stridently said that the cake was a carrot cake. (Seriously? We had nothing better to talk about?)

The conversation grew increasingly heated, Bundt cake versus carrot cake. I suppose none of us considered that it could, in fact, have been a carrot Bundt cake. But that's neither here nor there.

"It's a Bundt cake!" someone shouted.

"No, I'm telling you, it's a carrot cake!" someone shouted back.

"Bundt cake!"

"Carrot cake!"

It was at that moment that Mike turned around from the front seat, and in an effort to settle the dispute, said, "Guys! It's a cunt—!" and stopped dead, eyes wide in horror. He had just accidentally combined "carrot" and "Bundt" and said "cunt" in front of his mom.

​The car filled with a heavy, awful silence, which was only maintained because we were laughing so silently and hysterically in the back seat that tears were running down our young faces. Mike's mother, God bless her, never said a word about her son's gaffe.

Years and years later, well into adulthood, by pure happenstance I bumped into Mike. His first question to me: "Do you remember the cunt cake?"

Do I remember the cunt cake? I will never, ever forget the cunt cake.


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