Point: I’m Really Getting Tired of Penis Cakes at Bachelorette Parties
Look here, lady. I’ve seen penis cakes before. I’ve been to so many bachelorette parties in my life that I forget who half of them were even for. I mean, hell, I don’t even personally know the bride at this bachelorette party. I think she’s my half-brother’s sister-in-law? Anyways, I don’t care for penis cakes. To be honest, I don’t get why every celebration of a woman’s marriage has to be dick-themed. We get it; you like penises. I like my fair share of penises. But don’t you get bored of seeing so many penises in one day?
I mean, I get home from work and all I see for the rest of the day is just cocks — cocks galore. Why can’t we eat cake with rainbows and flowers on them? Why do they always have to be schlongs? Aren’t bachelorette parties supposed to be a celebration of marriage? So why are we celebrating dicks? Like, you aren’t marrying a penis, Janet, you are marrying a personality. If I didn’t know better, I would think that you are being wed to your significant other’s castrated penis.
I think we can all agree that penis cakes are just overdone. Like, where is the originality? In this year alone, I’ve eaten slices from at least 32 different penis cakes. Not only are dick cakes repetitive, but they’re also super racist. All of the Black dick cakes I’ve seen are at least two inches bigger than the pinkish ones — and don’t even get me started on the Asian dicks. The last one I ate was green-tea flavored and it had a base layer of rice. I don’t know which bridesmaid chose this one, Janet, but let me know so I can have a talk with her about racial stereotypes in this country.
I just don’t get why dick cakes are so popular. Just because you are getting married doesn’t mean you need to mourn your loss of sexual freedom with a phallic cake. (Hell, I know plenty of couples that got into the swinging scene almost right after tying the knot.) Please better yourself, and call me when you purchase a baked good that’s not in the shape of a willy.
Counterpoint: I Didn’t Ask to Be Made
Excuse me, Sarah, but you have no right to judge me. You don’t know anything about me. Do you know what it’s like to loathe yourself every moment of your waking existence, unable to stop from recreating the patriarchy you were born into? Oh wait, of course you know what it’s like to loathe yourself every day. Just look at the dress you chose to wear. It’s friggin’ hideous.
But also, like, you are just passing the blame onto an object that cannot defend itself. Humankind is way more to blame for the systemic infliction and objectification of penises than all of cakekind. I have this one buddy who’s from the Costco bakery and he’s never had to deal with the kind of systemic bigotry that I’ve had to endure. He’s a goddamned vanilla cake with strawberry filling and that’s all he is. He’s never been screamed drunkenly at, shoved at a stripper, or been seen as anything other than a bakery item.
But it’s not only penis cakes like myself that have to endure discrimination regularly. Some of my old buddies from my childhood turn out to be birthday cakes. Good for them, right? Wrong! Even birthday cakes go through this shit show that you call “life.” One of my pals, Snow White Frosted Cake, is always called “pretty” and “cute,” but no one ever calls her “strong” or “smart.” And my buddy Batman Dark Chocolate Knight Cake is always called a “boy cake,” but they’re still figuring out their gender.
It’s rough being a cake, but nothing is more agonizing than being a penis cake. Sure, my friends have it bad, but you don’t see feminists walking around and burning Cindy’s Fifth Birthday Cake in trash cans in order to “burn the patriarchy.”
I know I don’t have much more time left in this world. So I just want to say that before you verbally abuse a victim of your fucked-up society, just imagine what it’s like to be me. Try to imagine what it’s like to walk a mile in my chocolatey sh— aaaAAAhHHHHHH. gobble gobble
thats looks good