He ripped the bag open and threw a chip in the air. It landed on his nose, bouncing and sliding into the couch. He sat and watched as it settled into the crack, gone from mortal life, trading its eternal doom for one just as black and forbidding. He threw another chip. Toss, miss, rinse, repeat. Six months from now, the vacuum is gonna sound so wicked cool when he stuffs it under the cushion. Toss, miss, rinse, repeat.
He catches one in his mouth and crunches hard. The rest of the chips in the bag quiver at the crispy, inevitable destruction. What runs through the mind of a chip as it sees a cratered maw fast approaching? Does it make peace with its tiny chip God? Does its life flash before its eyes? Or does it just hope that maybe, just maybe, it'll bounce and land in the couch?
Wicked! (Sorry, I always thought it was a New England thing.)
ReplyDeleteAt the risk of sounding blasphemous, I submit to you my own personal insanity:
1. by the time a chip becomes a chip, it's already made its peace with the potato or corn or something god... or raged against it, or something.
2. the chip's existence in the couch isn't exactly pleasant
3. "oh no, not again"
Remind me not to comment on your posts.
Okay. Don't comment on my posts.
ReplyDeleteBut seriously, comment on my posts. It kinda lets me know that you've all read them so I don't compulsively check for comments every day or so.
That's exactly what I do, which is why I'm sad that no one has commented on mine in the three days I haven't been able to check them. I mean, I know they're not that interesting, but... surely people think?
ReplyDeleteThanks, btw.