Unending boxes of Cheez-Its
Cheesed off on March 29, 2026.
I sat in the parking lot in my car, feeding fistfuls of Cheez-Its into my gaping maw. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop. It was the fifth box of them, which was fitting for this fifth Sunday of the month. Snow fell lightly. Off in the distance, a dog froze to death. I fisted another handful of Cheez-Its and shoved them in my mouth.
Becasue liked my Cheez-It habit. But she wasn’t in the car with me. Only a pile of empty Cheez-It boxes on the front seat (and a pile of unopened ones in the rear). I had eaten so many Cheez-Its I felt as if I would burst. Another handful and they’ll be coming out my nose, I thought. I chewed, I swallowed. I administered another handful.
The EMTs (who as usual were actually gnomes) found me sprawled out in the grass a few furlongs from my car. A box of half-devoured Cheez-Its lay next to me, little orange squares scattered all about like uneaten crackers. Cheez-Its oozed from every orifice. I groaned and tried to roll over, but that just made it worse. More Cheez-Its suddenly shot from my nose. I was done for. If it wasn’t for those gnomish EMTs who knew how to revive a man after eating lethal levels of cheese and its.
I stumbled home, orange as ever. I needed more boxes of Cheez-Its. If I didn’t find more soon, I would surely starve. Or die of cheese withdrawal. And then I—