We’ve been planning on making lemon bars for a few weeks now. In an effort to redeem the failed cream cheese poundcake, Gigi decided to make another one in addition to lemon bars.
However, in the middle of the night, an evil ninja from a rivaling tribe sneaked into our home and rewrote the lemon bar recipe.
Gigi, in her innocence, followed the recipe.
But the ninja’s alterations were devious and non-delightful.
So when Gigi saw me approaching when the lemon bars were finished, she flailed her arms at me, screaming, “Stay back, STAY BACK! Run away! Save yourself!”
The inner mule-headedness pushed me onwards, and I saw the lemon bars, semi-innocently sitting on the island with their powdered sugar enticement beckoning me.
The first thing I noticed is that they did not resemble lemon bars in the slightest.
The second thing I noticed is there was no smell of lemon bars.
I tempted the fates by tasting one.
But that was the trick- the lemon bars were so-called in order to trick me into experiencing the disgusting abomination of slightly sweetened baked eggy doom taste in my mouth.
I repeated this process three times to make sure I hadn’t just picked up a bad lemon bar.
Nope. The same thing happened each time- a burst of pure awful taste, a swift and effective penance imposed by God Himself to purge me of any wrongdoing in the past decade of my life.
In that moment, I decided vengeance was the path I would follow.
So, hear this, O lemon bar ninja from a rival tribe: I will hunt you down, and I will destroy you by making you taste my lemon bars, which will be so good that the amount of happiness coursing through you body will cause you to spontaneously combust in a moment of sheer rapture- and then God can sort you out from there.