professional cakes - cakes wrecks

[through intercom, with British accent] “Ms. Jones, could you come in here, please?”
- door opens and closes -
“Yes, Mr. Reynaldo?”
“Ms. Jones, about that cake in the conference room…”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate for the board meeting.”
“I did make sure it said ‘Mr. Reynaldo’ on it, and not ‘Nigel’, sir.”
“Yes. No, I do appreciate that. But, ah, about the photo on it…”
“Don’t you like it, sir?”


“I’m sure it’s quite nice, Ms. Jones, but who is it?”
“I don’t quite know, sir. Why do you ask?”
[pause]
“Ms. Jones, I’m not gay, you know, I’m British.”
“Really? Are you sure, sir?”
“’Course I’m bloody sure!”
“Sorry, sir. It’s so hard to tell the difference, you know.”
“I’m sodding married!”
“Yes, but Mrs. Reynaldo won’t be attending the board meeting, sir.”
[brightening] “Oh, really? Well, alright then. Carry on, Ms. Jones, carry on.”



(Why? Three reasons: because I doubt I’ll ever find a cake with a dead parrot on it, I think “Nigel Reynaldo” would be the awesomest name ever, and for my new friend Anthony, of “Oh, you’re British? I thought you were just gay” fame.)