Do you know the Muffin Man? Yes, the Muffin Man who lives in Drury Lane. Right, that gingerbread cookie who ran around, taunting people with “Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!” Yeah, that was me. But let me tell you something, I knew firsthand that the story had a lot more twists than you’ve ever been told. The version of the story you’ve heard? It’s all wrong. I wasn’t just some happy-go-lucky cookie on a joy run. No, I was a cookie on the run for my life.

For starters, who even baked a gingerbread that size? I was basically a bread loaf with legs. Imagine this: I was fresh out of the oven, sprinkles shining, icing perfectly piped, and I was feeling good. Then I heard her shout, “Come back here, Gingerbread Man!” Man, one minute, I was dough on a tray, the next, I was running for my life!

It’s not like I had a choice in any of this, especially not in the oven of that crazy old lady who clearly had nothing better to do than bake anthropomorphic snacks. I mean, she gave me eyes and a mouth, sprinkled a little sugar on top, and then looked shocked when I came to life and ran for it? Yeah, because that’s completely normal.

And let’s not forget the problem here: from the second I popped out of that oven, everyone wanted to eat me. And not in the “Oh, he’s cute, let’s take a picture and post it” kind of way. No. They wanted to take a bite. I’d barely taken two steps when the old lady lunged at me with this crazed look in her eyes. Lady, you just baked me to life, and now you want to eat me? What is wrong with you?

I mean, seriously, I begged her “No! Not the buttons! Not my gumdrop buttons!” But did she care? Nope. She was ready to dig right in. What is it with humans and cookies? Couldn’t a baked good catch a break?

Naturally, I bolted. Let me tell you, I ran. I ran past houses, farms, cows, and even a pig with a suspiciously eager look in its eyes. Before I knew it, everyone in town was chasing me: people, animals, the whole gang. The farmer? That guy had a pitchfork, ready to roast me over a fire. Even the cows got involved! Had you ever seen a cow try to chase down a cookie? It was a disaster. They were slow, clumsy, and mooing like they’d never seen a baked good in their lives.

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But that’s when I became cocky. “Run, run, as fast as you can!” I yelled, taunting them. What was the point of being a fast gingerbread man if you couldn’t show off a little? I had sprinkles for days, my icing game was on point, and I was practically flying down the road. For a moment, I thought I was in the clear. No one could catch me.

Then, of course, Mr. Smooth-Talking Fox had appeared. I should’ve known better. He was a fox, after all, you can’t trust a fox. But by then, I was desperate. I had outrun the humans, the cows, the pig that looked a little too eager, and even a few chickens along the way. So, when the fox had strolled up all friendly, saying, “Hey, I can help you cross this river,” I ignored the obvious red flags. Never mind that he had been licking his lips the whole time!

But, like an idiot, I hopped onto his back. Sure, I was fast, but I wasn’t a swimmer. What was I supposed to do, backstroke across the river and hope for the best? So, there I was, riding on his back like it was some casual Uber pool, and suddenly he was like, “Hop on my nose, the water’s getting deeper.” Yeah, right. The next thing I knew, I was in his mouth, snap, and gone.

Here was the thing though, no one talked about how dry it was in a fox’s mouth. You would think being eaten was all chomping and chewing? No. It was more like being stuck in a desert where everything smelled like fox breath. And let me tell you, foxes didn’t have the best dental hygiene. But there I was, the cocky Gingerbread Man, outsmarted by the oldest trick in the book.

Moral of the story? Don’t trust foxes, avoid rivers, and for the love of frosting, never taunt the people who want to eat you. And while we’re at it, how about not bringing a gingerbread man to life if you’re just going to turn around and try to have him for dessert. That’s simply bad manners.

The end.