Pringles taught me true love


Picture this: I’m sitting at home, feet up, lazing about in my undies, television blasting a rerun of “The Punisher” deep into my eye holes while I use my belly as a table for everyone’s favorite tube-housed chips. For most of the afternoon it was easy enough to flex my gut to pop a chip out of the tube and into my mouth; however, after a couple hours of hard work I’ve reached the end. Or so I thought!

Turns out, there’s one left at the very bottom and no matter how hard I thrust, that baby’s staying in there. At this point, I have two options, admit defeat and allow the salty rebel to ascend to junk-food heaven (aka the trash can) or shove my king-sized monkey claw into the tube and hope for the best. Now I’m not sure about you, but I am incapable of allowing myself to be bested by a fried potato, so I’ll take door number two, Bob.

What came next was a revival of a decades-long battle between large man and slim cardboard tube. I readied myself, arm poised above my head for maximum entry velocity like an eagle dive-bombing its helpless prey from above, fingers pursed together like a claw from the stuffed animal grabbing machine we’ve all lost dozens of quarters to, jaw clenched and muscles taut like a puma prepared to strike.

Now, the moment of truth. I check the wind speed from the fan one final time to ensure my aim is true, growl at my dogs to establish this chip is mine and mine alone, and finally I attack.

Bullseye! My bear claw gracefully glides into the tube with machine-like precision. I begin to grin, fantasizing about the pleasure my salty victory will afford me. A bark of elation escapes my lips as I can feel the salt and vinegar-flavored dust caress my fingertips like a salty sea breeze. I am sure this battle is over and I alone am the victor.

But what’s this? I can feel my treasure, but am unable to grip it. In fact, it feels as though the tube is tightening. I have been baited into its open gullet like an insect to a venus flytrap. Panic is beginning to descend and I revert to my reptilian brain. My fight-or-flight response is kicking in and the latter is no longer an option. I begin to flail, my arm a blinding windmill of light blue swinging in circles. Like a feral dog with its foot in a fox trap I contemplate gnawing off my own appendage.

It is at this point that my significant other walks out of the bedroom to see what exactly is causing the pandemonium she’s been forced to listen to. She finds me writhing on the floor like a sad panda, spent and exhausted from my 60-second skirmish with a sleeve of cardboard.

Her face a mix of what seems to be pity and frustration, she approaches me like an experienced lion tamer. Whimpering, I offer her my limp paw in the hopes she can save me from my self-imposed prison. With grace she frees me from my cardboard penitentiary and pats me on the head.

Then she tips the tube upside down, smiles from ear to ear, and eats my chip. That is what I call true love.


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Made me laugh!

| Sunday, April 21, 2019 | Report this

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