Asked what his favorite Girl Scout cookie was, the president responded, “The mint ones.”
No wonder the crowd booed. Well, booed a little. There appeared to be a Samoa fan in the balcony. The crowd mainly seemed interested in conveying to him that the name of the cookies in question was “Thin Mints.”
You can’t just say, “the mint ones.”
That cookie has a name. That cookie has a proud history.
I may forget a name. I may forget a face. But I never forget a cookie.
And judging by the noise they made, neither does the crowd. After all, this is America. We may not know the names of the Founding Fathers, what happened at Appomattox, or most forms of basic math, but, dang it, we are experts when it comes to Girl Scout cookies. They bring us closer as a nation, if only because we are wider after consuming them than before.
“When was the Revolutionary War?” we ask.
“Uh. 1750something, I think. 3? 1753? Yeah, something like that.”
“What’s your favorite Girl Scout cookie?”
“The mint ones--”
“THAT’S NOT THE RIGHT NAME OF THE COOKIE!” the crowd rumbled, in unison. “WE MUST SUPPLY THE CORRECT NAME OF THE COOKIE! SOMEONE HAS JUST SAID SOMETHING IMPRECISE ABOUT A COOKIE AND WE MUST CORRECT HIM! COOKIE COOKIE COOKIE OM NOM NOM!”
I am exaggerating slightly, but you get the idea.
There is a little Cookie Monster inside all of us. It can be dangerous when unleashed.