All Write, Already!

...since it is harder to find time to post than it is during the week.

Emergency Rations

Tom rooted around in the fridge full of nondescript takeout boxes and quarter-full condiment bottles. Here I am he thought living in the richest country on earth, in an age of technological marvels, gainfully employed with reasonably good prospects, and yet I don't have a fucking thing to eat.

He could go to the grocery store. Nah, he was too weak from hunger. He could order a pizza maybe? Nah, it was, like, 2 degrees out. He's have to tip the driver a five-spot for coming out on a night like this. Clearly, a more drastic solution was called for.

Tom grabbed everything he could find from the fridge and cupboards that was not expired, stale, or moldy. The assembled emergency rations were as follows: one and a half sleeves of saltine crackers; two unopened pudding cups; a pickle of whose integrity he was reaosnably certain; a Big Mac that he had apparently brought home Friday night, but instead of eating it, had accidentally put it in the freezer (thank you, Jagermeister); quarter-full bottles of ketchup and mustard (and thus, by implication, half a bottle of steak sauce); and a fortune cookie.

Yes, he would feast tonight. Then tomorrow, he would go grocery shopping. If it wasn't too cold.