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Gimme a Cookie (standard:humor, 1314 words)
Author: hvysmkerAdded: Jun 18 2009Views/Reads: 1945/1222Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Beware! They're everywhere *Sob,* everywhere.

Deep in the Amazon Rain Forest, I lock the door of an abandoned shack
I've found hidden among the trees.  Tired and sweating, I stumble into 
its interior, spiderwebs breaking with every step, as I almost collapse 
onto a ratty stuffed chair, dust puffing up in clouds as my rear lands 
on various insect colonies. 

I can finally start to relax, as a loud "knock, knock" comes from the
entrance.  Shuddering in fear, I edge toward the door.  Peering through 
a crack, I see a small, dark-faced little girl, smiling as she sees my 
exposed eyeball through the crack. 

"You want some Girl Scout cookies, mister?" she asks. 

It all started, quite innocently, back in the United States, in my
middle-class, split-level home in the suburbs of Chicago. 

"Honey. Guess what?  Geena's Girl Scout troop is going to sell cookies
this year.  Isn't that nice, dear?" 

"Yeah. Guess so." 

"I know you're not all that interested, Dave, but it means you'll have
to fix your own supper for awhile.  I gotta drive Geena around while 
she sells cookies.  They have some great prizes for the best sellers." 

"Sure, dear.  Have fun."  "America's Most Wanted" was on tv, and I was
watching a segment representing a bank robber and killer raising hell. 

A few days later, hungry as hell, I came home to an empty house.  Doris
was out, driving Geena around, and I started a long series of 
half-thawed tv dinners, along with bags of potato chips washed down 
with beer. 

As the days turned to weeks, the chips became scarce, while the beer
cans propagated like mice.  To make it worse, every half-hour came that 
damned "Ding. Ding, ding ding.  Ding. Ding, ding ding," of the 
doorbell, half-way across the house from my armchair.  Twenty out of 
every ten times, it was another cute smiling female face, selling--you 
guessed it--Girl Scout cookies. 

Initially, I made the mistake of buying a box from each smiling little
girl, figuring Geena could simply resell the things later, giving me my 
money back.  Having lived with females for years, I should have known 

"I can't do that, Daddy.  I have to keep records, and all the money has
to go back to the Scouts." 

"Can't you keep it our secret?  You can sell mine first, and give me the
money ... like under the table," I said, winking. 

"It wouldn't be right.  The Scouts teach us honesty.  No. I can sell
them, but the money goes back into the pot." 

Now, at that time, the table next to the front door was stacked with
umpteen boxes of the damned things, threatening to cause an avalanche 
at the slightest sneeze.  Half my meager paycheck was tied up in 

I had no choice.  I had to get rid of them.  First, I tried telling
those pint-sized demons to f**k off.  All that did was scare them, some 
enough to run back out to their mommy's car to return with full-sized 
harpies, threatening to kick my butt before they turned me in to the 
police for teaching their little angels such language. 

Next, I put a lock on my front gate, only to see it trampled down by
tiny house apes, thundering through the hole like a herd of buffalo.  
Apparently, Geena told me, when I bought one of those first boxes, that 
cutie had taken the time to put a mark on the outside of the fence, 
signifying me as an easy mark. 

After I started fighting back, I was considered both an easy mark and a
challenge.  They talked about me at CookieLand headquarters, about how 
much fun they could have at my house.  That once they got through the 
bear and mouse traps, a sale was assured. 

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