I am, seasonally, an advocate for the Girl Scouts of America.

Each spring, I post my ode to the thing Thomas Edison wish he had invented: Girl Scout Cookies.  I find that although my writing and my politics evolve with age, my love of Girl Scout Cookies is constant, steadfast, unwavering.  A foreword to the original entry written in 2010:

  • The secret ingredient baked into Girl Scout cookies must be methamphetamines.*  Otherwise, what other logical explanation is there for my being able to inhale two full lines of cookies mindlessly and within a single two-minute sitting – often alone and in a room with melancholic lighting.
  • I am livid that the Short Bread cookies are a fixed item on the cookie menu.   They’re the thimbles of the Monopoly pieces, the Chris Kirkpatricks of NSYNC, the Millard Fillmores of US Presidents.  So much space on those Little Red Flyers could be made for Samoas, Tagalongs, and other unintentionally racially-charged cookies.
  • Every year, I approach a Girl Scouts cookie table with a very resolute goal of leaving with no more than two boxes.  And, every year, those sharks dole out the same marketing ploy, forcing me to leave with at least three boxes of cookies.  Something about me seems to say, “send the littlest Asian” because I always end up head-to-head with a bespeckled third-grader who sifts and fumbles through boxes, clumsily handing me my Lemonades and Caramel deLites.  It is enough for me to exclaim, “FUCK ALL Y’ALL, I’LL BUY THE ENTIRE STAND.”
  • It is 2013 and nothing has changed – except there’s a Girl Scout app now!  OMG.

Written in Spring of 2010:

As I sat down on the bus this evening watching a mother and her daughter fumble through boxes, I was reminded that this week begins the best season of the year.  Yes it is, indeed, Girl Scout cookie season — the most celebrated, socially acceptable, delicious form of child labor in the world.

I partake in the mass consumption of Samoas, my favorite cookie, despite objections to the culturally insensitive cookie name for a few reasons.  First, I am not going to lie — I am a pretty big hypocrite.  I am, after all, a 23-year-old San Francisco liberal and hypocrisy is as frequent as pretending to know who Marcel Proust is in this city (no, he is not a tennis player).  Second, I have an insatiable sweet tooth, embodied by the miraculous disappearance of jars of Nutella in this apartment.  The final reason can be relayed in a story:

When I was an elementary school student growing up in Houston, Texas, I wanted to be a Girl Scout.  I wanted to see what the inside of the neighborhood club house looked like.  I would later find out that it merely had four walls and an old, questionable couch rather than butlers carrying around decadent finger foods like corn dogs.  Mostly, I just wanted to see what white people did on the weekends.  The lone five or so white girls in our neighborhood were all Girl Scouts and they seemed to have Babysitter’s Club-esque fun.  I would later find out that white people in Texas sold cookies, canoed, went to church, and voted for George Herbert Walker Bush.

I think I was about 10 when I asked my father if I could become a Girl Scout.  My father, a Vietnam War Veteran and, thus, an embittered conspiracy theorist proceeded to tell me that the Girl Scouts was a large scale government operation whereby little girls sold cookies in an effort to fund and expand the United States military.  Please imagine receiving this very serious exchange, conducted in Vietnamese, during your formative adolescent years.  Suffice to say, I did not become a Girl Scout, but I did attend Georgetown University.  Yes, those two are related.

From then on, I opted to sort of live the Girl Scout life vicariously through the consumption of their cookies.  On a serious note, I have always told myself that when I have daughters, I would give them the option of becoming Girl Scouts (unless, of course, the military expansion is directly proportional to the selling and consumption of Do-Si-Dos).  And I was further reminded of this when I proceeded to purchase three boxes of cookies.  My seller was an adorable Asian girl who looked exactly like me when I was that age.  Wow, I am a sap.

Speaking of which, can we please discontinue the Asian girl bowl haircut?  It is traumatizing.

Editor’s Note:  They’re probably not made out of methamphetamines.  It’s a joke, Girl Scouts of America attorneys.  

I am predicting the Super Bowl.*

After months of rumination and research, the National Football League announces that its sport isboth responsible for horrific, unnecessary head trauma of its athletes and is vastly inferior to real football.  Accordingly, the NFL has voted that Super Bowl XLVII will henceforth be a giant Destiny’s Child concert starring Beyoncé and featuring Kelly Rowland and a Michelle Williams that is not of the Dawson’s Creek variety.  A slow clap echoes throughout the Super Dome.

Beyoncé appears on stage in a large, sequined sombrero and sings every platinum-certified single Destiny’s Child (i.e. Beyoncé) has ever produced.  Kelly and Michelle stand in the background sporting non-sequined Chevy sombreros as they participate in a 45-minute, two-person wave.

Kelly Rowland formally acknowledges that the entire chorus of “Stole,” her solo hit during her “illustrious” departure from Destiny’s Child, is grammatically incorrect.  In a symbolic gesture of apology for misusing simple past participles, she defers her performance to David Guetta – just as she has done for her entire career.  Guetta appears on stage holding a laptop computer, presses “Enter” and stands motionless while he watches throngs of football fans attempt to dance to house music without the aid of recreational drugs or excessive guilt over their liberal arts educations.

Michelle Williams is given approximately 26 seconds to sing a Christian song showcasing that she has, in these past seven years, done more than work at Nordstrom Rack.  Beyoncé stands in the corner of the stage, shimmering sombrero in hand, looking bored and fabulous as she contemplates the extent of her power and what Jay Z is cooking for dinner.

As the show ends and the crowd’s emotions dissipate from shock, incredulity, and confusion to anger elicited from unused testosterone and closeted homosexuality, officials are forced to declare an arbitrary winner.  In homage to the homoeroticism oozing (zing!) from the sport – quite ironic considering the NFL’s spate of homophobia as of late – the two teams compete in a big gay drag show adjudicated by the founding members of Southern Decadence.

San Francisco 49er’s Colin Kaepernick and Jim Harbaugh win by two fierce hip-thrusting catwalks.  A drag queen screams that San Francisco loves its tight ends.  Somewhere in Washington, DC, a Vietnamese girl yelps “Zing!”

Editor’s Note:  This will probably not happen.