Better Than Better-Than-Sex Cake

My wife made a cake last night. Not just any cake. In a small effort to spice things up a bit (if you know what I mean (not that we really need any more spice, just a bit, nothing more than the proverbial cherry-on-top (man I love these nesting parentheses))) Mrs. Cornucopia added a special ingredient to this cake.

A few days ago, the misses was grocery shopping, rummaging through the boxes of bow-tie pasta, searching for the most beat up box (hoping to score a discount) when she came across a misplaced bottle of dried-up ground leaves of the plant Epimedium grandiflorum a.k.a (and printed in very large block letters on the bottle) "Horny Goat Weed".

"Double-you tee eff??" muttered she, having never heard of Horny Goat Weed. Upon reading the label, my wife learned that this alluringly-named product is in fact (or purported to be) a powerful aphrodisiac, guaranteed (or purportedly guaranteed) to boost one's sexual prowess.

"Hmm, this might prove interesting," said Mrs. Cornucopia with a sly grin on her face.

"You talking to me?" asked some frizzy-do'd forty-something, pulling her head out of the display of canned pinto beans. (This lady had been scrounging for dented cans, also trying to score a discount.)

"Excuse me," replied the misses, and dashed off to the checkout.

So, anyway, last night after dinner, with the lights turned down, and some incense burning, my darling wife serves me a large piece of this very yummy-looking cake.

"Wow, smells delicious," I say in a line of dialogue so obvious I didn't even need to type it. After a few bites, I had to pause.

"Really rich," I say.

"Do you feel anything different?" my wife asks.

"No, not really. What do you mean?"

"Huh?" she questions, disappointed. "Right about now you should have a really big..." Awkward pause. "...red rash streaking across your forehead!?!"

It started as a slight tingle. Then a minor burning. And then, a major burning, a suffocating itch, and a trip to the emergency room.

I won't bore you with the details of how we had to wait in the lobby of the emergency room for 45 minutes and being forced to watch CSPAN. Nor will I bore you with the details of all the forms we had to fill out. (Okay, so I will bore you.)

In sum, as a warning, if you ever come across a bottle of "Horny Goat Weed" whilst seeking out smashed boxes of bow-tie pasta, well, sir, you just keep focused on your search.