We were all in the car driving down the boulevard when we came to a stop. I remarked about this fairly new bakery called Nothing Bundt Cakes. Previously, there were a series of other eateries that Lisa and I used to frequent in that very same shop: Ain't That the Shitake, Don't Give a Crepe, and Poopourri. Obviously, the rate of success in this complex is not very high -- disregarding the bad puns and obsession with the ass area.
I remarked to Lisa that I bet the bundt cake bakery would be gone in a matter of months. This simple comment set off a whirlwind of conversation in the car.
"Butt cake?" remarked Andrew.
"No, no. It's called a bundt cake," I said.
"Butt cake? That's a stinky cake!" said Emma.
"I know it sounds like butt, but it's called bundt," I repeated.
"Butt cake! Butt cake!' screamed Andrew and Emma.
"Andrew. Do you want some of my butt cake?" asked Emma.
"There poopy in it!" commented Andrew.
"Please stop saying that! Don't keep on saying butt and poopy!" I demanded.
"Emma. Do you want some butt poopy cake?" asked Andrew.
"Butt poopy cake? That's yucky! Butt poopy cake!" said Emma.
I tried to distract the kids by running over a bicyclist, but not even the bloodied windshield and shrieks of pain could stop their manic laughter over butts and poop.
"BUTT POOP CAKE! BUTTY POOPY CAKE!" they screamed.
As I slouched in my seat, Lisa turned towards me and said, "I wonder where they got their sense of humor, dumbass?"
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