Being a Gingerbread Man by Greg the Gingerbread Man (Day 5 of 12)


My name is Greg, and I live in a gingerbread house.

People might say, “Oh ha that’s so cool! I bet it’s fun to live in a gingerbread house!”

Well those people are totally wrong, and they must not think a lot before they speak, or they’d consider that the house and I are both made of gingerbread.

Why is this a problem? I suppose you could suggest that it wouldn’t be, because I’m only a gingerbread man, and why would I care? But look at it from a new light: imagine your homes were made of human flesh. Not just any human flesh, but sheets of flesh. Glued together with smiles (which you call “icing”) and decorated by buttons. (Buttons are actually an anatomically functioning thing in our body, although they’re just “gumdrops” to you people. They work a lot like lungs.)

Also, my feet are held in place by a thick layer of “icing” and I can’t walk. I want to run screaming from this horrible place, but I’m stuck here. People can’t comprehend that something could ever be the matter because they left me with this demented smile. My wife and kids are just millimeters away, and yet I can’t touch them. You people are sick creatures.

And yet we still have your species to thank for our very existence. December (especially late December) is our prime month for population growth. Not long after our creation, we are then consumed by our very creators. It could be that people don’t know that we are an intelligent species or it could be that you all just love watching the world burn. Either way, we have just cause to both love you and hate you. But more often than not we hate you.

Life is at its greatest for a gingerbread man at the moment he’s cut. He might become just a normal guy or get a “makeover” then, becoming Santa or a clown or something even more embarrassing, but the really unlucky ones aren’t decorated at all and have no buttons, thus they do not live long. Then everyone’s thrown onto a cold “cookie pan” and shoved into the deepest inferno that can legally be conjured up in a people kitchen. Some of us are stacked up in Tupperware boxes and taken to a relative’s house, some of us are nibbled on immediately, and some of us are glued with “icing” onto a quaint display, a gingerbread house.

There are always a few left after a year, forgotten about in a cabinet or under a chair, who tell their tale of boredom and misery, to afraid to move for fear of being seen at the beginning of their sentence, and too tired and elderly to do it when they find the guts. Oh please, gear Gingergod, please don’t let that be me.

I hope my article will help people everywhere understand the full consequences of their fickle holiday traditions, and please share to get the word out.

Ciao for now,



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