You've got to be kidding.

This morning, I went to the grocer for some breakfast ingredients and meat. As I was nearing the end of my shopping experience, I passed the junk food aisle. Yes, there is an entire aisle dedicated to junk food in a store with no more than eight or nine aisles.


Anyway, I took a stroll down the lane of enchanting sugar concoctions, noting as always the labels I can't read. "Surely," I thought to myself, "they'll not have anything I recognize." I then recalled a conversation I had had with my friend Leah not two days prior about Oreos. For the record, Oreos and I are in love.

"I will shit my pants if they have Oreos," I said aloud. Well, I suppose you know where this is going. Less than two seconds later, my eyes fixated themselves on a familiar logo. What I found was no less than a very small, bite-sized package of my favorite cookie. "Mother fucker," were the next two words from my mouth. This was not said in anger, but in ironic humor that my bet had been taken. I did a quick internal check to see if indeed I had the capacity to defecate in my trousers. Relieved that the answer was no, I grabbed a bag and made my way to checking out.

I feel like I hit pay dirt. Now, just don't tell my mother, or she'll stop sending full-sized packages of Oreos when she sends either me or my brother something.