My daughter served me leftover Christmas cookies this morning after I had performed my routine inspection of her house. Friends, these cookies were straight out of Satan's recipe book:

"How dare you attempt to feed me these reprehensible, breast-shaped cookies," I roared.
"I don't see anything wrong with them," my daughter replied defensively.
"Of course you don't, harlot. You are accustomed to sin and debauchery. Pointy, chocolate nipples strike you as mundane."
Then I noticed my eleven-year-old granddaughter across the room, biting into a gingerbread man's groin.

I beat them both senseless.
Ladies, let my wayward whore of a daughter's actions serve as an example to all of you. Don't bake nipple cookies. If you must bake gingerbread men, only make them from the waist up--think of them as homeless Vietnam War veterans--so that salacious little strumpets like my granddaughter cannot pretend they are gobbling tallywackers.

"How dare you attempt to feed me these reprehensible, breast-shaped cookies," I roared.
"I don't see anything wrong with them," my daughter replied defensively.
"Of course you don't, harlot. You are accustomed to sin and debauchery. Pointy, chocolate nipples strike you as mundane."
Then I noticed my eleven-year-old granddaughter across the room, biting into a gingerbread man's groin.

I beat them both senseless.
Ladies, let my wayward whore of a daughter's actions serve as an example to all of you. Don't bake nipple cookies. If you must bake gingerbread men, only make them from the waist up--think of them as homeless Vietnam War veterans--so that salacious little strumpets like my granddaughter cannot pretend they are gobbling tallywackers.




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