Earlier this week, when I least expected it, they got me. Those damn Girl Scouts, little ninjas of niceness that they are, snuck up on my house and forced me, with their unparalleled strong-arm tactics, to buy some cookies. Truth be told, this time it was just one Girl Scout, and how she got me to buy a box of cookies, just days after I’d bought four from a coworker’s daughter, was downright unfair. In fact, I’d like the government to consider quarantining this girl and weaponizing her cuteness. Because if she comes back to my house and pulls the same sh*t, I will be dragged into a life of poverty $4 at a time.
As it poured outside, there was a light knock at my door, and when I opened it I could barely stop myself from saying, “Oh you’ve got to be f*cking kidding me.” Standing in front of me, in an oversized raincoat that amplified the cuteness factor to unfair levels, was this Girl Scout holding a box. Her parent was dry and warm in a minivan two houses away, but she was standing before me, asking, “Would you like to buy some cookies?” In a matter of seconds, my standard defense of “I just bought some” crumbled like ash, and I dejectedly told her, “Give me a box of the Caramel deLites, please.” I also told her to get out of the rain and stay dry, but I swear she responded with a grin that implied, “Shut up, punk ass sucker.”
It’s the same story every year, as my gut defies orders from my brain and wallet. I wind up with more boxes of Girl Scout cookies than any human needs, and I eat them all with the shame of a man swindled out of his hard-earned cash. Somewhere out there the Girl Scouts who get me to buy cookies are displaying their Con Artist merit badges with pride, and I can’t blame them. They’ve earned them. All I can do is sit back, stuff my cookies into my facehole, and do what I do best… rank Girl Scout cookies like the world’s foremost cookie expert that I am. Argue with me if you want, but this is science, baby.