As a child, I hated the “Who Stole the Cookie From the Cookie Jar” song/game. I would try not to play it, but when I was forced to, I would play it reluctantly, unenthusiastically and sarcastically, to the point that the smart kids would actually laugh at my antics. This was one of my first tastes of performing comedy live.
But it wasn’t all wine and roses (and cookies). I hated being subjected to that game so much that for years, every time I saw a cookie jar, I would steal a cookie from it. Sometimes, I would even pick up the entire cookie jar and throw it on the floor and scream, “I threw the cookie jar on the floor. Yes, me!” I remember a time when I had to use the restroom at Macy’s and on the way, I caught a glimpse of a cookie jar in their break room. I flipped out and demolished that ceramic goodie bin. Security was called and I was beaten senseless. I spent two months in the hospital.
When I got out, I wasn’t discouraged. I had a new cause. My life had new purpose. I suddenly felt like a revolutionary rebel, fighting for imprisoned cookies everywhere. “Cookie Misfortune” magazine even called me “Chocolate Che Guevara”. I stopped destroying cookie jars, even though they made me sick. The problem was that sometimes when I broke the cookie jars, innocent cookies would also get crushed and I just couldn’t go on with all that melted, bloody goodness on my hands. So I went back to merely stealing cookies from cookie jars. Who me? Yes, me.
After some time and reflection, my life revolved around cookie causes. I became a motivational speaker, volunteered at a battered cookie dough shelter and fought hard against all cookie injustices, including the exploitation of cookies by a certain bearded glutton who rears his fat, drunken head each holiday season and those damned Keebler elves. (For those of you not in the know, they are neo-Nazis.) My life has been fulfilled ever since, but nowadays, whenever I hear someone say, “Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar!?”, I say proudly, with a tear streaming down my face, “I did. I DID.” And if they don’t just let me walk out of the room like Clint Eastwood after I say that and they want to add some sort of commentary, I punch them in the face and yell, “Viva La Revolucion!” Ah. Freedom is delicious. With or without milk.