The Cookie Dough Story

In my last installment of Blogging by a For Dummies, I covered another gem of advice offered on the internet (which means it has to be true and correct) which was Get a Life. The idea was to lead a life interesting enough to blog about. 

In short, no. I don’t want an interesting life. However, it was brought to my attention recently that I have some interesting stories to tell. The first I covered last week with the whole tapeworm thing. The one I shall share now was oft requested when I taught high school. I’m not sure what possessed me to tell it the first time but, as I said last week, it became something of legend. 

So without further ado…

The summer before I was a junior, my cousin Holly and I stayed at her uncle’s beach house in Perdido. It wasn’t far from our house. Maybe an hour. 

One night we got the munchies and went to the grocery store. Because I was young and had the metabolism of a humming bird, I got the bright idea to get a long tube of cookie dough. 

So, got it we did. My cousin Holly had the wherewithal to just eat a little. A spoonful or two. Me? Ah, heck no. I went all in. I cut that sucker in half, twisted it in the middle and as the cold heap of raw dough was squeezed out, I horked it down. It was a disgusting display to be sure. (To my credit, I wasn’t a drinker. I didn’t go out and party and the thought of getting drunk at the beach house never occurred to us. I was a good kid. Just stupid. I’m saying all that to feel better about eating that hunk of dough with the veracity of a baby goat.)

The next morning, I was on the beach early, just after breakfast. As I lay there, the sun beating down, the gulf winds whirling the heat like a convection oven, I started to feel quite ill. Nauseated. And, it just so happened, my stomach was swollen and becoming more so as the hot day blistered on.

By lunch, I looked like a bloated fish and felt like one too. As soon as I could, I got home, on the couch, and curled up on my side with a square dish pan. (I have a thing about vomiting in toilets. Can’t do it. See post, Call Me Ick Fish) And, I waited. I didn’t know what was going to happen but it was definitely going to happen. Whatever it was.

Around 8:30, it began. I sat up, leaned forward with a heave, and a horrific chain of events was set in motion. There was no going back. The Kraken was released and by golly, it sought vengeance. I strained, I shook, and behold it came forth. The dough. The damned dough! It surged up like a fist from my gut and poured out of my mouth like I was a human frosty dispenser until finally…BLURP! The massive glob of undigested, partially cooked dough plopped down into the dishpan in a single gelatinous heap of abomination. 

As soon as it was over, I lay back and fell asleep exhausted and sweating from the birth. Whatever my mom did with it, I hope it involved burning and prayer. Pretty sure I still have PTSD from the whole thing. Whenever I see a tube of cookie dough, I hear mortar fire and hit the floor, covering my mouth and clutching my stomach.

And there you have it folks. Let this be a lesson to the kids out there. The warning on the cookie dough tube is for reals. Don’t eat it raw. Or, at least, not half the tube.  And certainly don’t do it then go lie in the sun like an idiot. Without question, that monster will come back to haunt you.