I am miffed at yet another cherished American institution that has fallen by the wayside. I’m talking about the Chinese fortune cookie.
My fetching daughter and recent college grad das Indy Pie and I supped with some Chinese takeout the other night. You know. Sodium. Pork. Sodium. Celery. Sodium. Onions. Orange teriyaki sauce. More sodium. Miss Indiana opened the most nihilistic fortune cookie. It read: “You need to work harder …” to which she immediately replied: “You need to shut the phu …”
Being the adept father, like Superman, arms outstretched, I flew across the dining room table with a cupped hand and held it over my daughter’s mouth before she could finish any proto-Teutonic procreational yoga wishes escaped from her dainty and proper Catholic lips.
“Excuse me?” she said. “I DO work hard.”
Indiana is, after all, her father’s daughter. Poor kid. This cookie prediction followed her working — not making this up — three 17-hour days in a row.
My talented offspring stumbled upon a 21st-century truism. Diners at Chinese restaurants still get the cheap but yummy crunchy sea shell-shaped cookie with the processed sugar and hint of fake vanilla. But. And the But’s big here. It’s no longer a fortune cookie. It’s an Inane, Well-Duh State The Obvious Cookie. FOR EXAMPLE:
“In the East, the sun will rise. Likely, it will be yellowish.”
That’s not a fortune. A fortune is when someone, usually in silk robes that haven’t been dry cleaned since the 4th century and ditto with the turban, accurately forecasts upcoming events. LIKE:
“Taylor Swift will leave that overrated won’t block on sweeps do-nothing Kansas City Chiefs’ tight end Travis Kelce and marry you, without a pre-nup. Better? She’ll lose the hot rod diva attitude, embrace GOP values and dote over you like the man the gods ordained you to be. Please disregard this fortune if you are a woman or someone who feels the need to check all 14,064 boxes on your U.S. Census Form under, ‘Eye Color.’”
A fortune should give even the most acrimonious monkey bucket hope. LIKE:
“You will win $846 billion with a B Mega Millions lotto ticket. After taxes and pay-offs to California teachers’ unions, the mafia, state income taxes and faux Save The Planet cash bottomless pits, your take-home will be $87.42. Or, over 26 years, $3.36 per year. Make it stretch.”
Personally, I wouldn’t drop the $87.42 into a high-interest CD. I’d march directly over to Amazon and buy a large box of gum.
I wouldn’t make it as a Gen X fortune cookie writer. If you haven’t noticed, I’m wordy. But, I feel confident I could bring a modicum of lightness to a world drowning in depression, which is why people eat Chinese in the first place. I can write positive fortunes as good as the next Mainland Socialist. EXAMPLE:
“You will smile knowingly at the misfortune of someone close to you.” OR:
“Due to our using kung pao shrimps doing the backstroke too close to the COVID-rich Wuhan Lab backwater, tonight’s dinner will digest with surprising quickness.” OR:
“Your Lucky Lotto numbers for the next drawing are: 2, 4, 6, 8, Who Do We Appreciate! They’re not WINNING numbers. Just, lucky.”
Those who know me complain of a character defect psychiatrists have labeled as, “edgy.” I can write intriguing, audience-participation fortune cookies. LIKE:
“This Chinese restaurant is crowded; But don’t despair; Your boss has seen your bony spouse; In their kinky UNDER-wear!!” OR:
“Your pathetic plan to dine-and-dash after being presented with tonight’s ridiculously inflated bill for two eye cups of hot-and-sour soup will culminate by you standing, swaying, grabbing your reproductive regions and screaming, ‘APPENDICITIS!!’”
If these Chinese cookie future prognosticators were valid, they could at least provide some helpful emergency info. LIKE:
“LOOK OUT! NINJAS!” Or, one I could have used over the first half of my life:
“Your date is an emotional and financial vampire. Do not wed.”
I’d dine at the same Chinese restaurant daily if their cookies were accurate. Gosh. The possibilities. Accurate stock market tips. Winning Daily Double numbers. That private cell number of your true soul mate, lost for centuries. You know. Taylor Swift? If the government were truly serious about getting people off welfare, they could bake millions of cookies and hand them out with food stamps. The fortunes inside could point out:
“You’re a drain on national productivity.”OR:
“Can we chew your food for you?” OR, SIMPLY:
“Shame on you.”
I suppose they could try just being honest and write:
“You are the captain and master of your own ship and have the power to write, and live, your own fortune.”
Nah. Too un-American.
With more than 100 writing awards, Santa Clarita’s John Boston is Earth’s most prolific humorist and satirist. Look for “Naked Came the Novelist” his long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch, coming this fall.
