Saturday, August 18, 2012

Hickory Dickory


When I worked outdoors I ate lunch in my truck. My coworkers were a bit shy of interests and any conversation leaned to the weather; so being anal enough to want some entertainment with my meal I'd listen to MPR and dine alone in my k1500 Silverado.

I was a one sammy/chips/2dew or 1dew/1chocomilk kinda guy and to save cash I bought a can of Pringles once a week, keeping them in my back seat and ready to supply me a handful when necessary.


That is, until one day when I found a surprise in the can.


I'd dumped my normal 12-20 chips into my hand and prepared to peel them off one by one while pondering the speech-maker on "National Press Club" when I noticed a dark space looming in the center of the pile.


Lifting the upper section away I grimaced as a little furry lump came into view; an unidentifiable collection of color and texture that made the hair on the back of my neck curl.


I took the handful into the lunchroom; surely the staff would know what it was, there had to be at least
one question they could answer correctly.

A few of us discussed the possibilities, poking and prodding the hairy mass, flipping it over to rub it's little belly in hopes we'd discover it's identity. But alas, it was dead, it would squeak no more.


The next day, at the advice of the retailer with whom I'd reported my find, I whipped off an email to the manufacturer explaining my miniature dilema. It was weeks later that I finally received a reply; a snail mail envelope, hand written, misspelled name and scribbled address on it's face.


Inside was a veiled apology; well, not an admission of fault certainly, but a soul searching if you will..."we regret that the impossible may have happened though our engineers tell us that it could never be in that we are the cleanest, most well derodented factory on the planet etc.etc.etc."


It was not only signed by an obviously senior consumer relations shill (based on her signature being the size of a double spaced, typewritten paragraph), but in it's trifold was a small wrapped packet; a packet nearly the same size as the little squished formerly living, breathing thingy I'd found in my tater chips.


I ripped the packet open, excited to find my undetermined prize...a thousand dollar gift certificate maybe...a weeks stay at the Holiday Inn on St. Thomas perhaps? No such luck.


It was two coupons for 50 cents off my next purchases of Pringles with the company's thanks for not suing their asses off while bringing their little
OOPS to their attention.

Did I use em you ask? Sure I did. Just a few minutes after I watched that fleet of winged pigs cross the sky chased by the herd of flying monkeys that had suddenly appeared behind me during an attack of aurora borealis.


I can do lunch without chips. It's sad but... sadness is my life.

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