Ho-Ho Hobag

Well, friends, earlier today I made a flashpoint decision. I performed an action of what I thought would be little consequence. It wasn't one of those things that you think about so much while you're doing it, but immediately afterwards you get washed over by a huge tsunami of regret and it takes awhile for your conscience to settle down again. I didn't run a red light, I didn't have unprotected sex, I didn't even pay a hobo and a hooker to fight each other and then stuff their dead bodies in my trunk afterwards.

I ate a Ho-Ho.

Rachel and I were tired of shipping. We were working hard and decided that we'd like to grab some lunch. Pooling together a handful of coins that we gathered from under floor mats of our cars, hidden pants pockets, and cracks in the sidewalk, we headed out to Taco Bell. I had a bean burrito (89 cents) and Rachel had two soft tacos (1.49 or something like that.) It was all very economical.

We came back and I opened the fridge to put in a warm can of Dr. Pepper that was soupifying in my car from my late night trip to Franklin. And there they were. The package was opened, torn down the middle, revealing two sumptuous Hostess snack cakes nestled together like a pair of cream-filled baby bunnies--baby bunnies that begged to be consumed in the wake of cheap Americanized Mexican fast food.

My cohort and I took the Ho-ho's. I asked her whose they were and she mused that they were probably Chuck's (our boss, and the owner of the fine establishment that currently employs yours truly.) I said that they looked like they had been in the fridge for a while and somehow, in an unspoken agreement, we ended up noshing on the things before we could even make it down the stairs to our office. They were good--a little dry, but chilled to perfection. It wasn't until after we ate them that my companion started to frighten me a little bit. "Chuck's gonna be so pissed when he can't find his Ho-Ho's." She kept saying this. At first I was scared to the max but after things stayed quiet for awhile, I calmed down.

We didn't think much of our escapade until we heard a scream from upstairs. "Where are my Ho-Ho's?" a voice shouted out. And then without warning, "WHO ATE MY FREAKIN' HO-HOs? I'M CHECKING THE CAMERAS AND WHOEVER TOOK THEM IS GETTING FIRED!"

We were screwed.

Quickly, we composed ourselves and snuck out the back of the store and across the parking lot to the Sunoco, a place where everybody knows our name. Unfortunately, they only had the Little Debbie brand of chocolately snack roll and I was told that wouldn't do. We then ran across the street to Walgreen's where we found a large box of them for $3.69. Of course, considering the fact that we had to pool loose change together to be able to afford lunch, there was no way in hades we were going to be able to buy that box. We ran back across the street to the store where Rachel grabbed her debit card. On the way out, we were being hotly pursued. Or maybe it just seemed hot because it was a good 88 degrees outside and I was wearing a blazer. No matter. The point is that our boss and the victim of our gluttonous little scam was nothing less than shaking his fist at us as we ran back across four lanes of traffic. He screamed "Rachel!" from the curb the way Marlon Brando screamed "Stella!" in the rain in "A Streetcar Named Desire."

Rachel charged the Ho-Ho's and while we waited in line we thought of excuses--how we were going to explain this to Chuck. In the end, we came back and returned him a box of Ho-Ho's, laying on a thick bold-faced lie so ridiculous that it was obvious that we stole the original Ho's, but charming and self-effacing enough that nobody could ever be angry with us. Because we're smooth like that.

I can't believe I was concerned about being fired over communally eating a Ho-Ho but I'm not the slightest bit worried about being canned for blogging on the job.