I asked...

I asked our seven-year-old who ate the last ding-dong.

She said, “Look inside yourself.”

I asked a follow-up question about what they used to be called, long before seemingly every Hostess product was either a rhyme or an alliteration. 

She said, “Big Wheels, stupid.”

I asked her if there was any difference between a ding-dong and a ring-ding. 

She said, “You’re a ding-dong.”

I asked her if either would survive an Atomic bomb, outpacing the radioactive fallout, as a safe snack for future roaches and other assorted shelter survivors. 

She said, “That's not something you ask a member of your nuclear family.”

I asked her what she knew about fission. 

She said, “I need a chalkboard. Do we have a chalkboard?”

I asked her why she couldn't just use a whiteboard.

She said, "They aren't romantic. Scratch one and nobody flinches. You'll see."

I asked her if she thought there was something wrong with putting a pastry in a vending machine, when most good people feel they belong under glass at any decent French bakery.

She said, “Where they get stale? Where customers touch the glass? Where mistakes happen?”

I asked her if she pronounces it ‘croissant” with a hard “T” or “quasahn" like a Lyonnaise dandy.

She said, “Neither. I order danishes.”

I asked her why the long face.

She said, “Blame your genetics.” 

I asked her what’s a good example of failure.

She said, “You.”

I asked her what’s a better example of success.

She said, “Me.”

I asked her what’s the meaning of life.

She said, “Conversations like this." She then paused and said, "At least I hope so.”