A super serious answer to a super serious question. But the short answer is I dunk them in milk.

First, I’ll circle my finger around the lid of the cookie jar ever so gently and pop the lid off with enough authority so the cookie knows who's in charge, but not enough to frighten it. Then, I'll take my thick, rough fingers and pinch one of those delicate bi-racial delights out of the jar and place it on my smooth, rock-hard plate. Before we take it any further, I'll ask the cookie if it gives consent to be placed in my mouth, maybe even asking to video the whole session in order to keep us both safe. I'd immediately delete it after, though. I'd never upload it to CakeBang without it knowing. Anyway, I'd set the cup on the table, twist open the 2 percent and just pound that glass to the brim with milk, filling it with every... last... drop. Have to be careful not to overflow it, don't want to make a mess. Not when someone could walk in at any moment. Now, with my heart racing, nearly jumping out of my business shirt, I loosen my tie and undo the top button. Not only to calm myself down a bit, but it's time to strap on the protection. I take a napkin/paper towel, whichever is closer, and jam it into my freshly opened business shirt. With the rest of the paper crinkled, I smooth it out across my chest far enough to cover the top section of my steel-like abs. Now with that taken care of, it’s time. I gaze deep at the cookie, it looks at me. We both want this. So I snatch it off the plate before it can even react. I glide the cookie closer to my mouth, closer, closer… inch… by… inch. Oh god, I can smell the sugar as my hot breath barely reaches the outer portions of the Nubian wafer, and then, then I notice something is off. I examine the top of the cookie and… GOD DAMNIT, the wife bought mutha flippin’ Great Value Twist & Shouts!!! I slam the cookie on the table. “HOW COULD YOU?!?”, I shouted… But what’s the point, no one’s home, no one’s listening… no one cares. I pick the cookie back up, still mostly intact, dip it in the milk, and put the whole damn thing in my mouth. Disgusted, I chew twice, get another cookie. Milk. Mouth. Chew once. I repeat the process until I can’t shovel any more of those off-brand rejects into my sacred mouth. One reserved for Oreos, not whatever nightmare this is. As my eyes begin to tear up, from both sadness and shame, I hear the garage door open. In walks the wife, with a few bags of groceries.

“Hun, are you ok?”, she said.
“Nuwl om naht hull kay!! Dull I ulk ike om hull kay!!!

I fall to the ground, sobbing as I cough up bits of the extra chromosome cookies.

“Um, I got you some Oreos since they didn’t have any last time”.

I crawl to her feet, still crying and spitting the monstrosity milk/manure mixture onto the floor.

“Thank you-u-u-u-u, I love you so much. We can do sex tonight if you want.”

She said we could as long as I cleaned up the mess in the kitchen and helped put the groceries away. We then had great sex later that night. I’ll spare you the details.