I always impress the shit out of women when I feed them these little fuckers. I don’t even know why. Guess it’s all the chocolate, and evidence that parts other than my swinging pecker actually work.
Steps, which are simple as a pimple:
- Go to the grocery store and get Duncan Heinz Triple Chocolate cake mix, eggs, vegetable oil, Philadelphia (E-A-G-L-E-S, Eagles!) Cream Cheese, and sweet dark chocolate chips. I’m assuming you have fucking water. If you don’t, crawl back into your cake, paint a picture, and die there.
- Also, pick up a small cupcake pan–small as in the size of the cupcakes it makes, not the pan, wiseass. Find those tiny cupcake paper sleeves they sell, and buy a shit-ton of them. They’re usually hanging somewhere around the pans unless your grocery store is run by fucking dolts like mine is.
- Preheat your oven to 375 degrees.
- Mix all the cake shit together with the ingredients as specified on the box. No, don’t make two different fucking batches. Throw it all in a bowl and mix. If you have one of those fancy mixers, knock yourself out, but be careful not to put it on HIGH (like the jackass writing this once did), or you’ll wind up looking like you’re covered in moles.
- Put the little paper thingies in the cupcake pan.
- Use a tablespoon and plop the goo you mixed in there about halfway; higher than that and it’s going to overflow and fuck up your day.
- Use a butter knife, cut a cube of cream cheese about the size of a die, and place it in the middle of each cupcake.
- Drop a bunch of chocolate chips (I do four or five) on top of each.
- Throw the pan (not literally) into the oven, and cook for 15-18 minutes until the cream cheese is slightly browned on top.
- Take it out before they fucking burn, and let them cool on a surface that won’t fucking burn either.
- Transfer them to a dish, arranged nicely. If you’re feeling ambitious, go ahead and layer up that fucker three or four high.
- Cover will cellophane, so you can show your shit off–mad fucking skills, yo.
- Deliver it to a delicious server or bartender (no, not in lieu of gratuity), wait for compliments, hope for stronger drinks, and anticipate sweet lovin’.
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