Francois: another brutal cookie critic

In my time spent traveling across the better part of the United States, I, a native Frenchman, have stumbled upon not one decent cookie. Not a single baker or pastry chef in all this land that could sell me a cookie deserving of my palette. And I’ve thought to myself, “Francois, you kinky boy, are you completely hopeless? Have you set your crumpet standards a little too high??” To that I say, NON! It is the insolent American public that has set their cookie-munching standards far too low!

After months spent abroad in this very “American” country, I have finally stumbled upon the Holy Grail; the Arc de Triomphe, if you will. (If you will not, I will simply force you to). It is a cookie unlike any other I have ever come across. Just days after regurgitating* all over the counter of the Magnolia’s Bakery on Fifth Ave., I stumbled into a bodega… still in a drunken stupor.

You must understand, this was supposed to be my Grande Finale. I had journeyed all the way from Los Angeles, California, and still was no closer to getting my Two Star cookie review. On the opposite side of this country that is not France, I had found myself in this beast of a city that they call New York. And now, in this hole of a store, I have an angry Spaniard screaming some gibberish at me. Flight or fright, as we call it back home, took hold and I fled, though not before grabbing the first bag of biscuits I could get my fingers around.

Collapsing on the sidewalk a few blocks away, I sat up on the curb and fumbled with the small package of cookies. Without expectation, I bit into one. Now you must understand I’ve never been a religious man, never had to be; quite simply, I know when I’m above something. There is absolutely nothing Francois Petite could gain from an “organized religion,” but in the very instant I swallowed, too did I feel something omnipresent and utterly eternal in my nether region.

Hastily reaching back into the bag for another, I studied the thing and inscribed across the center was the word, Oreo. I’ve only heard of these small cookies previously in children’s storybooks, but I can assure you there is nothing childish about their effects. You see, in my time, I’ve put A LOT of foreign objects in my mouth but none have transported me to a place of such heightened consciousness and transcendent testicular awareness.

Waking the next morning with soiled trousers and an appetite for whiskey, I lay in the middle of a crosswalk, but I was sober. These cookies undoubtedly have a higher purpose, not only to cure sexual frustration, but malaria as well perhaps? This is no time for jokes though, because last night I had my phone and wallet stolen. They were definitely stolen. I didn’t just lose them. Okay? I must, however, give you American people credit for creating these Oreos. Otherworldly. Oh, and also deodorant. Thank you for inventing de- Wait no……….. just Oreos.

*self-administered

2 Comments

Add yours →

  1. Wow is your brain tested for being a genius cuz this is spektakulur

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: