Nachos

2005-05-08

Since I barely woke up in time to make it to orchestra this morning, I wasn't granted the privilege of eating breakfast today. I got home a little over an hour after noon to realize just how hungry I was. I decided to combine my conventional morning and afternoon meals into a superhybrid meal, the likes of which has never been seen by this nation to date-- an invention I've taken to calling "brunch."

After I put my stuff away, I browsed through the kitchen looking for leftovers or something quick and simple I could prepare. I wasn't in the mood for cereal any more, as the clock had passed 12:00 already, and my patience was just barely too little to let me make a sandwich. I needed something quick, I needed something wholesome, and I needed something delicious-- I needed nachos.

Luckily, someone in my family had foreseen this situation sometime earlier this week and preemptively bought a bag of nachos "for the family," of which I am a member. True to time-honored tradition in my family heritage hailing back over three thousand years, I found the nachos in the top cupboard immediately to the right of the fridge. Being unfortunately out of salsa, I found a bag of some grated cheese and set to work.

From past experience, I've learned that something will break if I put a regular plate in the microwave-- usually it's been the plate, but there have been some exceptions where the microwave was the victim. I very wisely spread the chips evenly over a paper plate, distributed the cheese in the same way, and put my concoction in the microwave. That's where everything started going terribly wrong.

I checked my e-mail on the computer, answered the phone once or twice, and made a few calls of my own. When I thought the process would be done, I returned to hear a very vivid sizzling sound from within. Thinking the cheese would be thoroughly melted by then, I opened the microwave and examined my creation.

The cheese had melted so thoroughly, in fact, that it had glued all of the individual nacho chips together in such a way that each had now lost his identity as an individual. They now belonged to the Nacho Collective, the first perfect implementation of communism on Earth: a society united in form and purpose, coated neatly with an appropriate amount of melted cheese.

I realized the ramifications of my actions—if the radical media caught wind of this, I'd never sleep a restful night another day in my life. Nachos around the world would join The Cause, and America's free market capitalism annihilated forever. Friends seeing my nacho plate would inevitably ask for "just one" nacho. I would need to explain to them how that liberty, long enjoyed by Americans nationwide, was completely gone. It was all or nothing now—the whole plate or nothing at all. Something had to be done.

I conserved the world's freedom one day further. I ate the nachos.

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