Picture it – the mid arvo munchies kick in and you’re barrelling towards your kitchen like a semi-tranquilised baboon. Out of the corner of your eye you see a mud cake on the bench. Trying to lay low.
Like a scene out of Oz, you double check if anyone is coming. Crack your knuckles, lick your lips and let the mud cake know that it just made a biiiig mistake being in your sights just now. You weren’t always a baked goods predator though. How did it get this way?
Well, there were essentially two types of children growing up. Firstly, the ones that thought their parents loved them more because they got a lovingly crafted homemade cake for their birthday each year. Secondly, the ones that got Colesworth Mud Cake instead.
Sure that bespoke footy shaped cake with the chocolate stitching looked like a loving creation, but in reality, it was a packet mixed piece of shit that was drier than the Murray Darling in cotton country.
Ipso facto, your parents weren’t particularly fond of you. Sure, they loved you, they just didn’t “like” you. You were more of an acquaintance to them.
If you were loved, however, you were one of the children that got a $4.40 Mud Cake (now $5.75). The golden standard in both taste and moisture. This thing was damper than a substitute teacher’s armpits in a portable classroom.
Over time, the homemade cake mob developed crippling rose` addictions and sought solace in ridiculous $200 cakes made by their unemployed “hustler” friends, while the Mud Cake mob grew to fully appreciate what their parents did for them in those formative years.
Essentially, the Mud Cake was a safety blanket for any young adult, especially when they were in the grips of a particularly brutal coughing fit after an unwise decision to go back to back bucket bongs in a High Wycombe laundry.
To this day, humankind has failed to find a dessert that is more accommodating to your duplex living lifestyle. It will never betray you.
Pair with a quarter of a tub of generic vanilla ice cream and let the flavours take you back to a better time in your life. A time where you didn’t constantly wonder why you’re hungover on a Wednesday and why you can’t even keep a houseplant alive.
If you have a bit more flair than that you can join the exciting world of modifying these bad boys. Essentially sticking a bunch of confectionary in there like it as a voodoo doll of someone you wished diabeetus upon.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?