When it comes to bad ideas, I'm used to taking the cake, which sounds like a good plan because cake is delicious, but in the case of bad ideas it's not. Instead of resulting in a fridge full of red velvet, when you take cakes as a result of bad ideas all you get is a Ziploc bag full of the urinal variety. Ick.
And while that sounds like the most disgusting cake there is, there's one that's even grosser. Which means, if you have an idea that's worse than bad and you put it into action, you can expect to get a cake equally worse than bad -- you get CakeFarts. (Warning: NSFW unless you work at a company called OH NO WHY IS THAT HAPPENING OH MY GOD EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW).
And nothing will earn you more links to pastry-inspired flatulence than trying to pick someone up at the Holocaust Museum (or, apparently, reading about it...). But seriously, if you hit on someone amongst Goebbels's most atrocious propaganda posters, be prepared to get the CakeFarts web address handed back to you on a Safeway receipt in return, at least if that someone is me. Which is what I would've done in retrospect had I been more prepared. Unfortunately, however, whilst surrounded by information and artifacts about one of the most atrocious events in human history, my flight instinct kicked in and I simply ran.
The Holocaust Museum isn't one of those places you come to to hang out. The Holocaust Museum is not MoMa -- we don't refer to it as the HoCo. It doesn't have an IMAX or any flight simulators. Really, there's nothing fun about it. So, why this guy, a 20-something with a southern drawl, decided it would be a good idea to try to get to know me better during a screening of a short film about Hitler's rise to power, I'll never quite understand. What's even more confusing is the line he used.
"Hey, how tall are you?" he asked me while Hitler talked about the Final Solution. He was seated and I was standing against a wall.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" I responded. I was a little confused as to what he'd actually said because certainly no one would ever actually strike up a conversation about someone's inherited Slavic traits while Hitler squawked on about eugenics.
"How tall are you?"
"Uh... 5'9" or so." I turned back to the film. Children with malnourished faces stared back at me.
"I'm 6'6"," he hissed.
"Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Fürher!" Hitler bellowed.
I said nothing.
"I can always tell when someone else is tall," the man whispered. "I noticed you like I'd notice a tree."
And that's when I ran away. First off, people are DYING three feet in front of us. Secondly, what the f*ck kind of line is that? You noticed me like you'd notice a tree? Are you saying I'm huge and shady? Because, sure, every girl wants to hear that...
Congratulations sir, you've managed to take creeping to a new level, and at the Holocaust Museum, no less. Really, you are a walking CakeFart.
Looking back now, though, I'm actually relieved I wasn't quick enough to think of my Safeway receipt Web site trick on the spot because this guy clearly would've taken my directing him to such a site as the ultimate come-on. He would've found me online, stalked me down and broken into my house. I would've been forced to grab my bag of bad idea urinal cakes as a handy weapon. And while I'd be under the initial impression that using such a disgusting prop to fend off this asshole would be a good idea, the resulting mess would prove me wrong. There's not enough Febreeze in the world...
In other news and more appropriate pairings (than, say, talking about the Holocaust and CakeFarts in the same essay) -- Double Rainbow all the Way met 2001.