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They called him Autobahn McSnazzy, and he lightfingered my lunchtime burrito before I even laid eyes on him. My frontal lobes floated the option that it was a mere misunderstanding, but my stomach was growling for blood (or perhaps pizza; its vocabulary is somewhat limited and it struggles to express itself). I managed to scrape by on little pieces of paper and sugar packets, then confronted him the next day. Sir, you ate my burrito. I was forced to resort to drastic measures. But the dastard offered no apology. He merely said, "VHY DU U LEAVE BURRITO IF NOT FOR EAT?" I got the impression it was not so much a misunderstanding as it was an attempt to pass a deliberate crime off as a misunderstanding. I scowled, said nothing, and wandered off pondering my revenge. Things anyone leaves are game to eat, huh? So, when he slipped out to use the can, I ate his mousepad. I mean, why did he leave it there, if not for eat? Upon his return, he seemed confused, and unable to connect my pilfered burrito with his missing Pamela Anderson mousepad. All was going according to plan. When he slipped out for a cigarette, I ate his hat, and then his parka. Upon his return, he seemed decidedly confused and annoyed. He looked about for his missing possessions everywhere before casting a withering glance in my direction. I had the upper hand! It was time to grope the bargain. As he meandered off for more coffee, I snagged his iPod and swallowed it whole, headphones at all. Unfortunately, upon his return, the DUNT DUNT DUNT of techno emanating from my stomach made it impossible to deny responsibility. I was fired, arrested, and later sent to a psychiatric ward for six months. I still consider myself the victor in this situation.
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