A friend of mine, who is a totally awesome dood, sent me a JESUS METRIC HOLY CHRIST-TON of rum cake for Christmas last year which I am quite delighted by because rum cake is nummy. I have a literal stack of rum cake in my room right now.
(Thank you again, btw, dood.) So, yesterday, I decided I wanted to have a piece of rum cake. I grabbed the box labeled "Rum Swizzle" and went out into the kitchen. My cat, Bilbo, a pudgy gray tabby, saw this and followed after me because if I'm going out to the kitchen, that probably means "get food" or at least an opportunity to plant his fat ass in the middle of whatever I'm doing and "get attention." Those are his two main motivations in life- get food, get attention… and also wait for the exact !@#$%^&*ing moment I'm done cleaning the kitty shitter box before he goes in there and takes the most gnarly nose hair-curling dump he can muster.
Anyway, so, I proceeded to attempt opening the box. Mind you, there is a genetic predisposition in my family that renders our women utterly, totally, and entirely inept at opening things. It doesn't matter what it is. If it involves being opened, we will find some way to catastrophically fuck it up. Jars have shattered on floors, plastic shards have lacerated flesh, food has gone sailing overhead and splattered the cabinets behind, liquid has erupted skyward, and even simple doors occasionally pose a problem for women of my family- I mean WAY above the standard deviation for failing at opening things.
So I knew I was in for a fight. The cardboard opened easily enough. The tissue paper put up a bit of a struggle but I managed to persevere. The plastic, however, was a formidable foe and would not yield without a fight. I could have just grabbed a pair of scissors I suppose BUT THAT WOULD BE CHEATING! So I wrestled that villainous plastic into submission, reached in, grabbed that rum cake right by the ass, and yanked it out into the light of DAY! …only for it to cartwheel up my forearm like a Ferris wheel off its hinges.
I have NO IDEA why my reflex was to flail as the rum cake neared my elbow but that is exactly what I did and it went sailing into the air like a great, majestic donut, at which point, some woefully mistaken part of me still unwilling to accept the fact that I have NO coordination at all, thought "OOH! I CAN CATCH THAT AND IT WILL BE AWESOME!" I watched the rum cake rise as if in slow motion. I saw it coming down, enhaloed in shimmering golden god rays of sunlight. My hand came up, then down, my fingers clenched… NAILED IT!
Except I didn't because my fingers clenched like a second too late and instead, I ended up slam-dunking Bilbo right in the head. He scrambled away into the corner and glowered at me with the seething hatred of a thousand volcanoes. I can't say as I blame him. I mean, how would you feel if you were minding your own damn business only to find yourself on the receiving end of a random meteoric rum cake smiting? My basenjis caught wind of this at which point they both ran out into the kitchen and froze, like… Dog.exe has stopped functioning because the conflict between wanting to "Hungry Hungry Hippo floorbound food before the other dog gets it" and "chase cat" fried their little doggy brains. I used that moment to quickly scoop it back up and see if it was salvageable.
Aside from a little cat hair, it was okay. I gave it a bath in some eggnog (would have used milk but we were out and not a single one of the fucknodules I live with thought to put it on the grocery list) then I set it in the oven for a bit because I was NOT about to let this big, beautiful rum cake be ruined by cat hair and kitchen floor detritus. It was surprisingly quite yummy heated up which is great but I think Bilbo probably won't be speaking to me for a while.
TL;DR: TIFU by slam-dunking my cat in the head with rum cake.