Cookies Ex Machina

Earlier this evening I was hungry. I was in the library and deluged with the incompetence and laziness of other people. I hate having to deal with the incompetence and laziness of other people, because my life has been finely tuned to survive, nay, to thrive, while still allowing for all the incomptence and laziness of my own that I can manage. You throw in third-party I&L, as I’m going to call it, and you’ve just thrown my lifestyle equilibrium way the hell out of whack.

So the point is.

I was hungry, and without singles, but I managed to scrounge 9 dimes and 2 nickels out of my pockets and wallet. For those of you who went to public schools, that’s a dollar. With change in hand, I mirthfully sauntered to the snack machine down the hall. I saw something in that machine I have never seen before, viz., a pack of Milano cookies. We all love Milano cookies, manufactured as they are by Pepperidge Farms, one of the nation’s must trusted names in both cookies and fish-shaped (but not-fish-flavored) crackers.

I got so aroused, gastronomically speaking, that I whipped all my change into the machine and hit C3….

…here’s an aside, how many times does it happen that what you want is like, D10. And you’ve scrounged up the change, and you’re like yes, I’m going to have me some Twizzlers or Cooler Ranch chips or whatever the fuck, and you go press — very carefully (and it’s like you’re saying it out loud as you do it)– DEE, and then for the first part of the number ten, OONNE, and then, then! You think you still need to press ZEEEROO, but holy shit, the machine is already whirling one of its spirally apendages, and out drops something that NOBODY wants to eat, like some gross powdered breakfast “pastry” or those radioactive orange peanut-butter crackers that look like they got cut out of a road construction sign. Because the fucking machine has buttons not, 0-9, which would be sensible, but 1-12, or 1-15, or whatever. And it ruins your whole day, because you’re out of change.

…anyway, so I hit C3, no snags, no dropping of the wrong thing, no precariously dangling snack treat that the machine failed to push out, and I go to get it, and it’s BIG, you konw, that’s why I bought it, it’s BIG, and I look at the wrapper, and it says, fucking, 4 cookies. Four milano cookies. I should have known, for a dollar, I should have known. But it’s deceitful, people. I took pictures but I can’t get them out of my phone and onto this blog yet.

The worst part of it was as I was walkign down the hall, alone, looking at the damn wrapper, I said, out loud, “I got owned.” I said this as I walked past one of the little side alcoves that I forget about where people are always studying, but hiding, like the Gestapo might suddenly find them, fe’ll show you fot ve zink ov your zaditious Oceans Law textbuch in diese country, why do they have to hide like that, anyway, I know they heard me.

Caveat fucking emptor, my friends. Caveat snakes-on-a-motherfucking-plane emptor.

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