Earlier this week, L thought she would enjoy a side of baked Cheetos to complement her lunch of cold chicken and tomatoes. Little did she know what this innocent decision would lead to. Usually, all one has to fear from eating a delicious Cheeto is the tell-tale orange finger syndrome.
Cheeto powder has been known to resist even the strongest industrial chemical cleaning fluids, leaving many to speculate that the only two things that will survive nuclear holocaust will be cockroaches and Cheetos. And then just cockroaches with orange feet and mouths.
This day was different. As she picked up the third Cheeto and directed it toward her mouth, she suddenly noticed its unusual shape. Normal Cheetos are supposed to look like cheetah scat–thus the mascot. This looked like a different part of the cheetah anatomy. It was unmistakable, but how could it be? How could this get by quality control? Why would the decent people at Frito-Lay do this?
She had been flashed by a Cheeto. Our living room lunch couch became a park, and the bag became a creepy man in an overcoat.
Maybe she was the victim of a prankster on the Cheeto-shaping line. I imagine that each snack is hand carved by old-world artisans. On Oscar’s last day, he decided to go rogue and carve a special surprise for someone. “I wonder if the person will eat it,” he thought. Oh, the sick reveries in Oscar’s mind. He’s like those guys at Disney that painted dirty words into the clouds or the long line of bathroom illuminati who have drawn genitalia in sharpie on every stall door in America.
Our investigation continues as we determine whether we send the body part back to the cheetah who lost it.