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He's kooky for Girl Scout cookies
By MARK W. MAYFIELD
There are four cardinal rules of column writing (sometimes called "columning"):
1. Thou shalt not publicly criticize or impugn any organization that enjoys overwhelming support from the American people, especially if the organization is the Girl Scouts.
2. Before using "impugn" in a column, thou shalt look up the word in the dictionary to make sure it means what you think it means.
3. If you're a columnist who's columning, thou shalt not use "me" when "I" is the correct pronoun. (Of course, only ignorant novice columnists violate this rule. Me and my fellow veteran columnists never make such rookie mistakes.)
4. Thou shalt not use biblical language for humorous effect.
Today, I will knowingly and happily violate cardinal rule #1. After years of falling prey to every fast-talking Girl Scout who ever accosted me at my doorstep, at a grocery store, at church, in parking lots, at malls and in dark alleys, I'm finally saying, "enough is enough!" The final straw was a disturbing exchange I had with a very persistent Girl Scout who was peddling her habit-forming merchandise in front of a supermarket.
"Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?" she politely asked, holding up a box of those delicious fudge-dipped shortbread cookies.
"No thank you," I politely replied. "We already have plenty of Girl Scout cookies at home." (My statement was absolutely true. Me and my gullible wife-I mean, my gullible wife and me-I mean, my wife and her gullible husband ordered ten boxes in January.)
"But, Mr. Mayfield," she said, " we still have lots of your favorite kind, Thin Mints." She held up a box of the most delicious Girl Scout cookie ever invented.
"How do you know my name and how do you know I LOVE Thin Mints?!" I demanded, unable to conceal my anger.
"Everybody loves Thin Mints," she replied with feigned sweetness. "Who can resist a crispy cookie covered with delicious minty chocolate?" As she spoke, I saw something sinister in her eyes and it frightened I. I mean it frightened me.
"Don't lie to me, you cold-hearted little cookie dealer!" I screamed. "You KNOW that I've ALWAYS loved Thin Mints! You KNOW that in 1997, while I watched Hitchcock's Psycho, I nervously consumed two entire boxes of Thin Mints. You KNOW that in February 2000, I drove around aimlessly at 1 a.m., desperately hoping to find a stray Girl Scout who could give me a Thin Mint 'fix.' And I KNOW how you know these things. You have a computer printout of my past cookie purchases, don't you? You have colorful graph charts that illustrate my cookie preferences, don't you? You have a record of every single cookie I've ever purchased, don't you? Well, let me tell you something, little miss cookie girl. I'm not falling for your tricks this time. I'm getting in my pickup and driving away with my wallet intact, so put THAT in your Thin Mint and smoke it!"
But the hideous Girl Scout creature wasn't finished with me.
"Maybe you'll change your mind after a little talk with Mrs. Pummelwhack, the world's most violent Troop Mom," she said, tilting her head toward a huge woman holding a baseball bat. "She just 'sold' 213 boxes of Peanut Butter Patties to a 350-pound football player. I'm sure that she can 'sell' a few boxes to you, too."
"Do you really believe that threats will make me change my mind?" I bravely asked, keeping a wary eye on Mrs. Pummelwhack. "Now I understand why you sell cookies only once a year. It's because if you stay in the same place too long, the authorities will put an end to your criminal behavior. Well, sweetheart, this is one man who won't be intimidated by a sneaky little girl and a musclebound, butt-ugly woman with a baseball bat."
At this point, our conversation ended because I was frantically removing money from my wallet to pay Mrs. Pummelwhack. By the way, readers who want to buy more Thin Mints can contact me. I have 213 extra boxes.
Mark Mayfield (markmayfield@mindspring.com) admits that the preceding "disturbing exchange" was slightly embellished for this column.
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Cupertino, California Since 1947
