Today’s lunch began like any other. Around 12:30 I got up from my desk to stretch my legs and grab a bite to eat. I remembered that I had recently bought some hearty ham and bean soup, and I wasn’t interacting with any people today, so flatulence wasn’t a concern.
Little did I know the horrors that awaited me in the hours ahead. (Surprisingly, completely unrelated to flatulence.)
As the soup warmed on the stove, I noticed a bag of French peasant bread on the counter. It brought back fond memories of the grilled pear and brie sandwich I had made the night before, so I decided to slice off a piece of bread for toast.
I recount the following moments with clenched cheeks and gritted teeth. It plays out in slow motion in my memory: As I placed the remaining bread back in the bag, carefully sealing the Ziploc bag, I went too far. In trying to create a perfect seal, I flew too close to the sun.
The plastic slider came off the end of the bag, forever sealing that soft, delicious bread inside the impenetrable plastic.
I backed away from the counter, mouth agape. This couldn’t be happening. How would I survive? What would I eat? Where would I live?
With these questions running through my head like a pride of kittens, I turned to the list on my fridge of the 5 steps to experiencing and surviving a tragic event:
By the time I finished reading the list, I had already accomplished every step. I had even swallowed the plastic slider to show it that I was the boss of me. Now it was time to start my new life. A life without French peasant bread. A life without amazing grilled pear and brie sandwiches:
You see, my friends, plastic does not decompose. No matter how long I waited, I was never getting through that plastic bag. My only hope was to survive so that maybe my children’s children would be the ones to experience the pleasure of the rest of the French peasant bread.
So survive I did. I barricaded myself into my condo using rubbers bands and spare game parts. I signed 20-year contracts with Charter Cable and AT&T wireless. I built a Ninja Warrior gym in my bedroom, and I built a bedroom in my office.
It is from this impenetrable fortress that I write this account, the air thick and nearly unbreathable from my encounter with the ham and bean soup. This is my Fortress of Solitude, Batcave. It is here that I will seek justice for the French peasant bread and all the other food trapped in Ziplocs.
This is my destiny. Have a good weekend.