[mobglob-discuss] Pie police keep PM safe from dessert storm

[Graeme Bacque]

Aug. 17, 2002. 12:15 AM  The Toronto Star http://www.thestar.com

Pie police keep PM safe from dessert storm
By Slinger

A TUBBY little man bent furtively over his word processor, perspiration 
beading on his brow.

``Ingredients,'' he typed, his bloodless lips curling into a sneer.

``2 1/2 cups milk

``3 eggs

`` 1/2 cup sugar

`` 1/4 teaspoon — ''

He looked up sharply, the blood draining from the rest of his face. What 
was that noise? He drew the curtain back enough to peer into the street 
with one tubby little eye. Nothing was moving. His eye came to rest on the 
pastry shop on the other side. The notice on its boarded-up window read, 
``Closed. By Order.'' A tense exhalation hissed through his tubby little 
teeth.

Letting the curtain fall shut, he resumed typing.

`` — salt

``1 teaspoon vanilla

``A pinch of nutmeg''

He never dreamed when he enrolled in the pastry course at George Brown 
College that he would end up on the run, hunted, a marked man in constant 
danger.

``Line a 9-inch pie plate with rolled-out dough,'' he typed. He imagined 
the thousands across the country waiting to receive these instructions over 
the Internet. The thought gave him courage.

``Pour the milk in the top of a double boiler and bring water to a boil. In 
the meantime, beat eggs, stir in sugar — ''

That noise again! No! Relax! His imagination was running wild.

`` — and salt. Add the scalded milk to the egg mixture along with the — ''

There was an explosive crash! The door splintered, ripped from its frame. 
Four huge men rushed in. ``Dessert Task Force!'' one of them shouted. ``Get 
away from that computer! Move very carefully!''

``Or you'll never move again,'' snarled another, twisting the man's tubby 
little arms behind him. ``You're under arrest for disseminating pie recipes.''
``Read the son of a bitch his rights,'' said one of the officers.

``The son of a bitch doesn't have any rights,'' said the officer who 
handcuffed him. The others nodded.

``Look at this!'' An officer pointed to the computer screen. ``This wasn't 
just some ordinary pie. This was a custard pie!'' The others whistled.

A custard pie was clear evidence of malice aforethought. Nobody in history 
had ever actually eaten custard pie. It was a proven fact. A custard pie 
was only baked with one purpose in mind.

``You're dead meat, crumb-bucket,'' an officer growled and, using the butt 
of his gun, smashed the portrait of Mme. Jehane Benoit, the baking 
underground's patron saint, ``the Lenin of Lemon Meringue,'' hanging above 
the word processor.

Chalk up another successful bust by the DTF, the combined unit that was 
called ``the Cupcake Cops,'' although not to their faces.

After police on the West Coast collared two individuals carrying Rice 
Krispies squares during a visit by the Prime Minister, it had become clear 
to security experts that the occasional pie shell filled with Reddi-wip 
that had been hurled in the prime-ministerial kisser was more than some 
disgusting prank by ignorant hooligans. It was a huge, disciplined, closely 
controlled conspiracy aimed at destroying the state by humiliating the head 
of Canada's sovereign government.

Legislation making it an offence to possess dessert in the vicinity of the 
Prime Minister was rammed through Parliament.

But since there was no telling where the Prime Minister was liable to turn 
up in order to slap the backs of potential voters, zero tolerance was the 
byword.

Bar mitzvahs were raided, and the sweet tables carted off in armoured 
trucks. Wedding receptions were held in secret so the Dessert Task Force 
wouldn't burst in and take the cake. It never worked. As the bride and 
groom were led away, a Cupcake Cop would chortle, ``If the next cake you 
see doesn't have a file in it, you're going to be in the slammer for a long 
time.'' Children had bad dreams for months whenever the clown at birthday 
parties pulled off his rubber nose, flashed his badge, and tore the Oreos 
from their sticky fingers.

``What about doughnuts?'' asked an officer, worried that unsavoury elements 
had infiltrated the DTF.

``Doughnuts aren't dessert,'' said the superintendent. ``They're hors 
d'oeuvres. Same as celery filled with Cheez Whiz.''

The officer sighed with relief.

``Everybody knows that,'' the superintendent said.

``By the way,'' asked the officer. ``What happened to the evidence in the 
`Sweet Sixteen' case? The five-layer, double chocolate, almond-mocha torte? 
It disappeared over lunch.''

``Mice.'' Absent-mindedly patting his tummy, the superintendent burped.

``Mice?''

``One of these days we really should call in the exterminators.''

Slinger's column usually appears Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday