Do you ever get the impression that no one is trying anymore?

That's not a fortune. It's barely a sentence. Perhaps it's the harbinger of a new type of desert for the food blogging generation: the description cookie.

Description Cookies®. For when you don't have the words to describe what you just ate.℠

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Every year, they change fortune cookies formats on me. In the past, I have gotten statement cookies and platitude cookies. This past week, I ate a cookie that I would have guessed contained a typo, except the next several cookies were just as bad. So this year, I introduce the non-sequitur cookie. Bon a petite!

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One year ago, I uploaded a fortune cookie. After my recent dining experience yielded a banal "you display the wonderful trait of charm and courtesy," I've decided to reformat it as a platitude cookie. Have fun. Or don't. I don't really care.

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UPDATE 01/12/09: You should see a fortune cookie above this text. If you don't see it, you don't have Flash plugged into your browser. If you do see it, you can click on that cookie repeatedly for fortunes. I really wish I didn't have to include this bit of explanation, but when your Mom tells you that she doesn't understand why you would post a picture of an unopened fortune cookie, it's time for drastic measures.

UPDATE 02/21/23: No, no. Flash is now long, long dead. So no fortune cookie for you.

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After yet another long day behind a keyboard, coding to solve an apparently insolvable problem for an apparently endless contract that will never, ever pay me back what I've put into it (around the house, we call this project "Tar Baby"), I was at the end of my rope. I had passed through frustrated to embittered, and was now firmly entrenched in seething hatred. As the darkness wrapped my soul in a smothering blanket of searing fury, I contemplated doing something rash, something terrible. I was finally ready to turn to a life of remorseless super-villainy!

The world would fear my name as it trembled under my iron fist! I would crush my opposition and take what rightfully belonged to me! The huddled masses would cower before my very name!

In a rage, I flung myself up from my disconsolate sulking and reached for something tasty to fuel the sour flame roiling deep in my belly. Seizing at some leftover chinese food, I snapped open a fortune cookie, savagely crunching into the stale, cement-textured dough, and forcing myself to choke down the desiccated, partially masticated bolus. Only once I was half-way through the masochistic exercise of eating this "cookie" did I glance at the small worm-like paper that had fallen to the counter. It read:

So the next time you are wondering why someone did something completely insane like climbing the outside of a skyscraper with no safety wires, wrestling naked with a dozen starving pit bulls, initializing a new round of ethnic cleansing, or running for public office, just remember: a fortune cookie probably told them to do it.

Meanwhile, realizing that a unusually Emersonian fortune cookie was actually encouraging me to devote my remaining life to hurting other people as revenge against intransigent css and insolvent destitution, I shelved my plans for world domination.

For now.

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