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I’m gonna start a club. A club for the beaten up and downtrodden. A club devoted to the abused and dismissed. A place for those who have really been through some things. People who have been put through the wringer without a moment’s hesitation on the part of the abusive abusers. Those that have been through events that would destroy most people. In fact, most women, all but two children, the majority of dogs and the entirety of small woodland animals wouldn’t stand a chance dealing with things these guys have seen. I’m talking true misfortune. That type of club. A club where like-minded individuals can get together and work through each slice of grief and torment layered on top of them. An example? Hmm. I don’t really have any examples of this type of hardship on hand. Let me think. Heh, you’ve really caught me off guard here. Hmm. Think, think, think. Oh, well here’s one I just happened to think of out of the complete blue. It’s probably one of the worst types of pain a man can deal with though so be forewarned. This is a tale of woe. A paradigm of unrepentant wrath. A crisis of unknown repercussions.

 Let’s say for example I had been working extra-long hours. Almost 28 hours a day, 7 ½ days a week for months. I’d been pushing myself beyond the limits of most mortals and a few non mortals. I never complained a bit. When I would lie in the floor and cry it was so that I made everyone else more comfortable. They would relax because I seemed more human. More relatable. I do what I do for others. It’s my blessing and my curse. I live to serve. About once every decade I would reward myself with something small and unassuming. My wife keeps saying that a decade is 10 years and not a daily occurrence. She isn’t trained in the art of humors as I am, but I know she says stuff like that to keep my spirits up. So, I laugh at her little jokes and count my lucky stars I have someone who tries.

This decade, not unlike the other decades, I found a delectable piece of carrot cake.  It had its own spot in the kitchen. A place where there isn’t too much or too little light. Just the perfect amount of humidity. A pedestal of pastry. It was waiting for me at home. All day I’d been thinking about it. Just knowing it was waiting on me had gotten me through a long, hot and muggy day at work. Anytime I started to feel like I just couldn’t anymore, I thought of that rich, moist, sweet cake calling to me. Like a siren singing its song, it beckoned me from afar. Hearing that song echo around, I knew I could finish the day. No matter what, I’d drag myself through the muck and mire to get home. Oh carrot cake, I hear your call and I’ll soon answer. 29 ½ hours later, I finally arrive home. I take a shower and stroll into the kitchen to gobble up (in a savoring and respectful way of course) the cake.

Only it’s not there. It’s missing. I immediately search everywhere right in front of me. Panic sets in. Not an out-of-control panic, but the normal panic you’d expect someone to have when their cake is missing. I begin sweating due to all the agony and effort that goes along with crying like a small child. Totally normal. Once my eyes roll back down and I stop screaming, I take the next logical step. I ask my wife where it is. She doesn’t answer me at first because she doing some trifling homeschool thing with one of the children. Finally, after she lets me finish my panicked, “where’s my cake?” dance she answers me, sort of. First, she begins a long uninterrupted fit of laughter. I say uninterrupted because even during my pleas and protests she only laughs more and harder. She says it’s gone. She ate it. Imagine this, I stand there like a person that is completely and utterly shocked. I can’t even think of better way to explain how I feel so again I ask you to imagine it. I’ve been betrayed. My eyes are rolling towards the heavens again. I’m making manly noises. I hear a distant, ridiculous voice telling me not to be so dramatic. My wife says I sound like a cat giving birth to a sea lion. What does she know? Her ears are full of cake pilfering thoughts.

Moments later, I’m sitting in my car with a bag packed. I’m about to head to Mexico even though I don’t like the heat. I hear they have great Mexican food though. As long as my wife doesn’t eat that out from under me too. I sit there trying to rationalize to myself that she made an honest mistake. I attempt to dismiss how she cackled like a harpy. A harpy that’s stolen my carrot cake and thinks it’s hilarious. I try to erase from my mind how during her laughing fit, she told me I watched her eat it last night. I remember this but thought it was her cake. She said she told me while I was eating an enormous bowl of ice cream. Well, a person should know you don’t talk to someone while they’re eating ice cream. Especially when it’s a sensible and healthy portion filling up their bucket. I realize she had to have put some sort of spell on me to boggle my simple and honest mind. These wily women. Her tricks are too powerful.

So, I see no other options. I have to go to Mexico. There’s no other choice for a disgraced and cakeless man. I will form our club and build it up. It will be a club of camaraderie and fellowship. It will have world renown cake bakers from every corner I can find them. We will become the most powerful club on the planet. Maybe even the world. We will be invincible. Nothing can possibly stop us. Theres a knock on the car window. I look up. It’s my wife saying she’s not gonna find the car keys for me again so I might as well quit being a big baby and come back inside. I accidentally roll my eyes. Luckily, she can’t see due to all my tears. I’m allergic to something out here, I guess. I check online for a cake safe and club membership badges before I go inside. This will be a secret club. A club where we have our cake. Lots of cake. And we’ll get to eat it too.