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Bite-Sized Giggles

Baking cookies is next to godliness...

So, if needed, this is what I’ll tell the police...

When a child has a birthday, my daughter’s school, like probably most every other school, allows the students to bring, in celebration of their own birthday, treats for their classmates.

Numerous times, my kids and I have had this conversation. I complain, saying that if it’s someone’s birthday, shouldn’t the class be treating the birthday girl or boy? Why the hell do I have to buy or bake something for everyone?

“That’s just the way it is, Dad,” I’m repeatedly told.

Fine. It’s backwards, but I’ll deal.

For my daughter’s eighth birthday, she asked that I make one of my specialties - Mexican coffee cookies.

When it comes to things that I know are good, I am truly and sincerely a vain man, and my kids understand and recognize that. Any chance that I can showcase something that I have openly bragged about within the safe confines of our home, I take full advantage of that opportunity. Those little manipulators know that too.

Fine. Mexican coffee cookies it is then.

Without going into too much detail, the cookies essentially look like chocolate-chocolate chip cookies, but smell and taste divinely different. They are quite simply, spectacular.

On the very early morning of, and while being semi-rushed, I simultaneously made two batches of twenty-four, bite-sized, melt-in-your-mouth, Mexican coffee cookies. Beyond excited, so it appeared, my daughter then took delivery of said cookies for first recess distribution.

At this time, I should mention that, the second batch of twenty-four, bite-sized, melt-in-your-mouth, Mexican coffee morsels were for me and a select few others.

Perfect. All went well. I then received the call.

Now, in my defense, I was being pro-actively efficient. Usually, I would make two mutually exclusive batches of cookies, but since our convection oven allows me to simultaneously bake two or even three trays of cookies, I opted to utilize our purchased and paid for technology to my benefit.

Unfortunately, I mistakenly sent my batch of cookies with my daughter.

I initially offered the full moon explanation, knowing full well that institutional behaviors are both contagious and affected by lunar polarity, especially during a full moon. Many emergency room studies have confirmed this.

However, that could not properly explain an all-afternoon, glossy-eyed, unfocused, incessantly giggling class of seven and eight-year-old boys and girls.

Yes. I am a very bad man who made a very bad mistake.

Apparently, what prompted the school to call me and the rest of my daughter’s classmate’s parents, to retrieve our children almost two hours before the end of the school day, was the picture my daughter drew on the white board.

Mr. Richards has taught elementary students for almost twenty years, but he has never had a student with a parent like my daughter’s. If you have read some of the stories I have written about my kids, you’ll then know that I am preparing my children for the real world, by teaching them profanity, interpretation, and innuendo. Both my kids, in my opinion, are fabulous students, and fabulous instructors, both very comfortable with sharing their Ping-Dad, taught and learned knowledge.

“Mr. Ping,” a very irritated principal said, “On the white board, under the photo of her teacher, your daughter erased his name, and drew a picture of male genitalia, body hair included.”

I bit my tongue. I knew where this was going, and where my precocious little shit disturber went. We had had that conversation and giggle-fest a few times before. I wanted to say well done, darling, but wisely, I refrained.

“From that point on, Mr. Ping,” the principal continued, “The class was uncontrollable. Mr. Richards, another teacher, and I, could not control or stop the children from laughing. My God, five students wet themselves from laughing so much. Mr. Ping, do you have any idea why this occurred?”

Not my worst fear, but possibly one that would rate in my top one hundred, began to creep into my mind.

“I’m sorry, I don’t, Mr. Principal,” I white-lied as I began sampling the ineffective batch of cookies that had mistakenly remained at home.

“Harold, I mean, Mr. Richards believes the cookies your daughter brought to school may have had an extra ingredient that may have affected the entire class.”

I denied the implication but now started to giggle myself. If push comes to shove, and if anything was proven, I could be charged with something. However, no one else would have this conversation. No one would suspect or find out. The damage to the school, its reputation, and its administration would far outweigh any justifiable penance heaped upon me. It would be a media shit storm, one definitely to be avoided.

Parents were told that there was a heating issue with the classroom, and that there was no available space for an entire class of students for the remainder of the day. That inconvenient windfall was the school’s attempt to explain the children’s giddiness, which by the time of pick up, had peaked.

Sadly, Mr. Richards felt that he would most probably need to find employment elsewhere.

To his students, and every other student, and staff and faculty member of my daughter’s school, thanks to me and my lovely, stoned and unfiltered daughter, Mr. Harold Richards would forever be known as, and associated with, Harry (Hairy) Dick.

That was the second last time I simultaneously baked my special cookies with those others intended for younger or less experimental palates. The last time was my mother-in-law’s funeral. Much to the chagrin of my bovine-in-law, my wife’s evil sister, but to the immense satisfaction of my father-in-law, a good time was had by all, except of course, for the deceased.

Ping Note: Absolutely nothing of the events in this story are true, except for me having a daughter and the Mexican coffee cookies. The thought of this scenario just made me giggle, and I wanted to share. I now pass it to you and hope that this story made you giggle too. However, for you to fully enjoy, you must inhale, or in this case, swallow.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © 2015-2019 Ping. All rights reserved. All stories and poems are written by, and the 'soul' property of, Ping, and he real life alter-ego. No portion, in whole or part, can be borrowed, linked, or reproduced without their expressed written consent. Please don't steal our stuff, just ask us if you want a copy. Thank you for your consideration.

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