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What's a Wreck?

A Cake Wreck is any cake that is unintentionally sad, silly, creepy, inappropriate - you name it. A Wreck is not necessarily a poorly-made cake; it's simply one I find funny, for any of a number of reasons. Anyone who has ever smeared frosting on a baked good has made a Wreck at one time or another, so I'm not here to vilify decorators: Cake Wrecks is just about finding the funny in unexpected, sugar-filled places.

Now, don't you have a photo you want to send me? ;)

- Jen

Entries in Just Funny (353)

Wednesday
Jul232008

Somewhere in Kabul, There is an Italian Bakery

No, that's not the opening line for a joke; there really is an Italian bakery in Afghanistan. It's also where today's cakes come from. Let's see what our military folk are getting for their birthdays, shall we?

Not bad, not bad - although it looks like the cake suffered from a little friendly fire. But what's up with all the random silver balls? It reminds me of those plastic bubble mazes we had when we were kids.

Wait, I can explain this one! Submitter Sara writes, "One of my guys was a reservist who had been a male stripper, hence the naked rear."

Ewwkay. Wait, [head tilt] do you guys see a naked rear? Kind of looks like pants to me - or shorts, I should say. And the shading - why?

But most importantly: we're sending MALE STRIPPERS to Kabul?!? Dang, joining the army has never seemed so appealing - am I right, ladies? I mean, assuming this picture is not representative of what said strippers actually look like...

This is like one of those old Magic Eye pictures: I simultaneously see a bear and an armadillo. But before I can decide which it is, I'm distracted by all those baffling silver balls again. I guess the Italians use them like sprinkles - metallic, molar-breaking sprinkles, but sprinkles all the same.

Sara C., for the cakes, and for all you do on our behalf, thank you.

Tuesday
Jul152008

And Now for Something Completely Different

[through intercom, with British accent] “Ms. Jones, could you come in here, please?”
- door opens and closes -
“Yes, Mr. Reynaldo?”
“Ms. Jones, about that cake in the conference room…”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate for the board meeting.”
“I did make sure it said ‘Mr. Reynaldo’ on it, and not ‘Nigel’, sir.”
“Yes. No, I do appreciate that. But, ah, about the photo on it…”
“Don’t you like it, sir?”

“I’m sure it’s quite nice, Ms. Jones, but who is it?”
“I don’t quite know, sir. Why do you ask?”
[pause]
“Ms. Jones, I’m not gay, you know, I’m British.”
“Really? Are you sure, sir?”
“’Course I’m bloody sure!”
“Sorry, sir. It’s so hard to tell the difference, you know.”
“I’m sodding married!”
“Yes, but Mrs. Reynaldo won’t be attending the board meeting, sir.”
[brightening] “Oh, really? Well, alright then. Carry on, Ms. Jones, carry on.”

(Why? Three reasons: because I doubt I’ll ever find a cake with a dead parrot on it, I think “Nigel Reynaldo” would be the awesomest name ever, and for my new friend Anthony, of “Oh, you’re British? I thought you were just gay” fame.)