The King of Cupcakes

I didn’t start out in life thinking that I would one day be the King of Cupcakes.

It’s not as if I sat around with my childhood buddies saying things like, “Do you know what I’m going to be when I grow up?”  To which one of them would have replied, “No, Kenny.  What are you going to be when you grow up?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to be Mike (or Ron, or Jimmy, or whichever one of my friends it was that had done the asking).  I’m going to be the King of Cupcakes!  I’m going to come up with flavour combinations you’ve never imagined and I’m going to decorate these cupcakes in ways that will make you weep from the sheer beauty of it all!  Now, who’s up for a game of road hockey?”

I was like any other boy growing up.  I was going to be a cop, a fireman, or an astronaut.  Instead, I ended up being the King of Cupcakes.  How did I get here?  Well, it all started the year I enrolled in medical school.  I chose medicine because my fear of getting shot by a bad guy ruled out being a cop, my inner ear disorder prevented me from becoming an astronaut, and my inability to work our simple fire extinguisher at home made me realize that a career in firefighting wasn’t an option.

I was convinced that I was going to be the greatest surgeon the world had ever known.  That was, until I was shown my first real cadaver.  It turns out that in addition to having a fear of getting shot, an inner ear disorder, and an inability to save people trapped in a fire, I am also incredibly turned off by blood and guts.

I didn’t give up the fight at first.  For awhile, I thought about being an oncologist, but then it occurred to me that telling people they have one of the most feared diseases of all would depress me.  So then I considered being a cardiologist, but most people who go to cardiologists are old, and old people have a tendency to die.  Who wants to stare death in the face all day?  I certainly don’t.  Then I told myself that I could be a general practitioner, but most people who make appointments with their G.P. do so not because they are genuinely sick, but because they just like to whine about every ache and pain.  Listening to people gripe about essentially nothing didn’t appeal to me either.

I wanted to be around happy people.  People who weren’t two seconds away from a heart attack, who didn’t have half of their intestines hanging out, or who compared their fifty year old arthritic knees to someone with half of their intestines hanging out.

I came to this conclusion while eating a cupcake I had just bought at the grocery store.  It wasn’t a very good cupcake.  It was dry, to tell you the truth, and the icing had a chemical taste to it.  “I could make a better cupcake than this,” I declared.  No sooner had I said that than I started experimenting with flavours and teaching myself decorating techniques.  I set up shop soon thereafter and it was an instant hit.

No one ever comes into my shop covered in blood or talks about how their case of the sniffles is just one phlegm ball away from turning into lung cancer.  They come in happy and leave happy.

Et voila!  That is how I became the King of Cupcakes.


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