McCarthy vs. Muffin

9:21am.

I walked into my regular cafe on the way to work to purchase some hot liquid caffeine. I was, for whatever reason, feeling a little bit adventurous and thought I’d purchase one of the establishment’s fine array of baked goodies to store away in my backpack to nibble on at lunch time.

“My oh my, what should I have?” I asked myself. Out loud. My eyes scanned straight past the chocolate varieties (#cleaneating #teamnosugar) and instead I was enticed by a lone green-hued muffin sitting innocently on the shelf’s edge. However, there was no label telling me its flavour, which only added to my interest.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?” I ponder, leaning closely to the enigmatic adult cupcake while ignoring the stares from concerned patrons. I was running late and my latte was going cold so I YOLO’d it and bought the little grass-coloured treat and didn’t think anything of it – surely it must just be some kind of exotic pistachio-based creation with succulent blueberries and sweet cinnamon seasoning.

On that thought I picked up the mysterious muffin and handed over some coins to the worker, who erupted into evil laughter when he handed back the change.

“Svvvvvvvvvaaaaariiiiii!” he hissed in some kind of foreign tongue. “Saeeevaaaaaaariiiiiiiii mfFIIIINNNN!”

His hisses got louder and I was started to feel uncomfortable so I threw the muffin treat into my backpack and walked briskly out the door.

I ignored the ominous thunderstorms that erupted the second I stepped foot outside. I didn’t even think anything of the locust storm, or the army of skeletal warriors riding on blazing zombie horse chariots. Surely they were just coincidences. Yeah, coincidences.

3:21pm.

“Grumble,” moaned my stomach.

“There, there, old pal,” I replied. “Not to worry, remember I bought a delicious pistachio, blueberry and cinnamon muffin this morning?”

Another thundercrack.

I zipped open my bag and fetched the palm-sized bread cake from its paper bag as my stomach continued to grumble. “One moment, Tommy the Tummy.”

Multi-tasking, I ripped off a section of the muffin’s plush yet slightly crisp top as I turn my attention to my computer screen to continue “writing an article”. Little did I know, this fatal lapse in attention would be the cause of my downfall.

Time seems to move in slow motion as my hand moved closer to my mouth. I’m too captivated by a picture of a Shiba inu to look down at the food getting closer and closer to my face hole. Four minutes pass, then nine, and the suspense is rising. Why am I so slow at eating?

Then, finally, it happened.

The enticing green muffin sitting innocently on the cafe shelf this morning finally meets my mouth. However, there are no pistachios. No blueberries. And certainly no cinnamon.

Instead I was met with a blend of spinach, spring onion and a hurricane of fucking corn kernels (hurricane is now a legitimate measurement).

“PFTTTTHTHTHTHTHHTHT!” I cried, spitting out the eggy blend of vegetables from my mouth. My eyes dart to the evil muffin sitting on the table surrounded by four dozen spat out corn kernels.

Indeed my taste buds did not deceive me. Inside its body was a blend of various vegetables and possibly – god forbid – fruit. My head began to spin.

“VEGETABLES? CORN? YOU’RE A FUCKING MUFFIN, YEAH? IS THIS A MUFFIN WHICH I SEE BEFORE ME? EXPLAIN YOURSELF.”

Then it all flooded back to me.

The man at the cafe. His hisses.

He was actually.

Saying.

“Savoury. Savoury muffin.”

And that was the story about the time I thought I bought a beautiful fun-filled muffin but it turned out to be a corn concoction baked straight out of hell. The End.

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