In one of my better financial investments, and what most would deem as a grade-A baller move, I unabashedly dropped a cool $28.00 last week on one of the greatest products that has ever been created: Girl Scout Cookies.
A concoction of what I can only postulate is a sweet blending of rainbow dust, happy sparkles, the love of 1000 golden retriever puppies, and ¾ of a cup of blow, Girl Scout cookies are the decadent ambrosia that us mere mortals are so fortunate to have on this Earth. I’d also speculate that once they are fresh out of the oven, the ever-sweet and loving Betty White blesses them with her adorable smile and sunshine-y giggle before they are packaged and shipped across America into the anxiously awaiting tummies of the public.
In short: Girl Scout cookies are dope.
I was a girl scout for about ten minutes in my youth. During that time I succeeded – at failing. I managed to accrue 0.0 badges during my scouting tenure.
If there was a badge in dentistry and orthodontia though, it should have been mine, as at a meeting one day I knocked out Lauren I’s tooth using just a popsicle stick. No anesthesia, no grueling years of dental residency, no sanitary precautions taken. Impressive, I know.
While my scouting days were short-lived, my love of Girl Scout cookies remains evergreen.
In my most Buzzfeed-esque post to date (HIRE ME), scroll down to find out what your favorite Girl Scout Cookie says about you:
You most likely go by the name “Grandma,” “Gammy,” Gam-Gam,” or “Nanna.” Your pockets are filled with a decidedly unappetizing medley of hard candies, interlaced with tufts of half-used tissues. You spend your days at the senior center, checking out all those fine geriatric gentlemen (Hi, Glen!), and your nights taking a brain-itching tussle with both Alex Trebek and Pat Sajak, respectively. Although you vehemently don’t like that glammed-up prostitute Vanna White and you certainly never will. Your social media presence is strictly just Facebook, but from your countless all cap-lock posts on your grandson’s prom pictures, it looks like you’re basically running the internet, “TIMMY,,,,,,,,,YOU LOOK SO HANDSOME. SAY HI TO MOM AND DAD FOR ME. LOVE, GRANDMA EILEEN AND POP POP” You are the old soul trapped inside all of us, only yours rocks a mumu and taps on the ceiling with a broom to get those rambunctious kids upstairs to settle down. You do you, Abuelita.
My fellow reckless and feckless wild child, you are indeed the life of the party. Or at least the cookie swap. Debauchery is your middle name. You may or may not have been voted “Most Likely to be Incarcerated” in high school, and you’re certainly not one to let your legions of fans down. Tattoos litter your skin as permanent souvenirs from nights out so epic that you don’t even remember getting them. Especially the three that say “Stephanie” in various fonts. Most notably, however, is the one in the dead center of your right ass cheek written in COMIC SANS. Were they for the same Stephanie? Three different Stephanies? No one will ever know.
The tackle box kept in your garage isn’t full of bait, flys, or other fishing accouterments. Instead, it’s teeming with a colorful and large array of prescription pills, cans of nitrate, and a couple of enemas teeming with Bacardi 151. Getting weird on a Tuesday? Hit up the tackle box. Mr. Donohue next door continues to dribble on about his sciatica? Use your finest bartending skills and pour him a sweet yet highly efficient tipple of apple juice and codeine. Old Man Don is about to be liiiiiiiiiiiiit. You’d offer him Xanax, but the last time you popped about a couple doses worth of it in one go, you woke up three days later face-down on a massage table in Bali.
Calm, cool, and wildly refreshing, you are one minty-fresh motherlover. You give daps to 93% of the general public and just have that “swagger”. You effortlessly slide into the DM’s of every Caroline, Betty or Bobby that fancies your eye, and you ooze with charisma. You’re the Pied Piper of the 21st century…but instead of entrancing rats, you got just about everybody ready to Netflix and Chill; the entrance to your apartment a revolving door for the manifolds that enter. Much like how elevators have piped-in music continually playing, so does your crib. Only instead of smooth jazz filling your airways, you have a constant mix of Bryson Tiller, Marvin Gaye and the dulcet tones of Michael McDonald flooding your home. And lest we forget, the closer.
While the lights dim and your partner cozies up to you on the sheets you should have washed two weeks ago, Peter Gabriel’s 1986 hit, “In Your Eyes”** bellows out from the speakers, descending upon you both, washing your bodies away into a euphoric evening.
And by “evening” I mean approximately 3 minutes and 32 seconds of the evening. Giggity.
**And if this is not yet your closer, I implore you to add it to the rotation. I just got seven of you laid. You’re welcome.
You were the quarterback of the football team. Or the captain of the debate team. Your extra time goes into volunteering at the animal shelter, or knitting sweaters – OR knitting sweaters for the animals at the shelters #altruism. Your daily uniform is some sort of collared shirt and a flippin’ sweet pair of chinos. You rock a haircut tapered close to your neck, and all of your social media pictures are just you lost in a sea of your 17 closest buds at the local rec softball game. Your skin is tattoo-free and you haven’t missed a Sunday mass since that time you were twelve and you had the mumps. You are courteous, polite, and probably the most awkward dancer out there. You and your lady, whose name is probably Mary Jane or Leslie, have been going steady for four years – and have yet to deviate from the missionary position. Lord knows that the time you “accidentally” slid it in the back door put you on probation for a whole month. You somehow manage to use the word “oodles” at least twice a day, cite Guy Fieri as your chosen diety, and the hardest drug to hit your system is that baby aspirin you pop every morning – it’s never too soon to start thinking about heart health! Keep on keepin’ on, soon-to-be-dad that rocks Hawaiin shirts every damn day.
Born September 4, 1981, you are her highness, the Princess of Petty, Ms. Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter.
Your phone case is most likely a picture of Marilyn Monroe or Audrey Hepburn, ’cause #goals. Your Instagram and Facebook profile pictures are just one heavily filtered selfie after another, with mediocre-at-best rap lyrics serving as captions. Lyrics that in no way embody your attitude or your upper-middle class suburban rearing at all.
Starting September 1, you run on a crude mix of PSLs and passive aggressive sub-tweeting. “YAAAAAAS” is the most common word in your vernacular, and “you just can’t even” to about 87% of the normal functions of daily life.
Nicholas Sparks is your favorite author (If I’m a bird, you’re a bird), and 50 Shades of Grey is the preeminent American novel, according to you.
Basic white girl, reporting for duty.
DIY is your middle name. You are the hardest crafter on the block. That spare bedroom in your house isn’t an office, it’s a cavern full of felt pens, glue sticks and half of the stock from Michael’s arts and crafts stores. You are the friend that, without fail, gives a present with a homemade twist for every holiday. And I mean every holiday. Candy corn collages on Halloween, stockings filled with sweets and homemade ornaments on Christmas, and to-scale replicas of five of the eight battle ships sunk at Pearl Harbor on Pearl Harbor Day (Dec. 7th for those of you who are not woke) complete with a 7” miniature Franklin D. Roosevelt constructed entirely of twine and tops from old Four Loko cans. You spend hours drooling over Pinterest, color-coding your washy tape and actually wear a fanny pack full of stickers. And you always got a glue gun on the warm, because you never know when a glitter bomb of inspiration will hit you.
The only reason you eat these is because you are a celiac. Or you are one of those assholes who has decided to nix gluten from their diet – and won’t stop telling everyone about it.
Do us a favor, shut up Ken. And while we’re on the subject, no one gives a flying fudge about your Peloton bicycle. Or the 73 over-priced Spartan races you “conquered”, or your latest Oregon Trail-style dysentery cleanse.
May all of your hashtagged “fitfam” posts get less than 11 likes each, amen.
You are a victim at a “barbeque”. You were promised open flames and raw meat but instead have endured a catered party and these little s’mores wanna-bes instead of the real deal.
Don’t let this misdeed happen to you again. Settle for [s]more.