Curse in Frito Land

I'm writing this freehand because my house sucks and I don't have a good internet connection so excuse the gramamar and punctu@ti%n!, but I feel compelled to unfurl this tale of horrendously dreadful horror nonetheless.

Upon the summer months, sometime in February, I had located amongst my simple things a bag of Frito potato chips. The date said 12/24/11, so I thought they would be good, but boy was I in for a surprise...but I'm getting ahead of myself. Lets rewind fifty minutes previously to the beginning of this sordid tale.

I was higher than I'd ever been in my life atop a mountain that looked like John F. Kennedy's nose at the appropriate angle when all of a sudden a bird of prey (I think it was a sparrow...the kind that feeds on human bone marrow) dove at me with astonishing speed. I attempted to perform a triple back flip through a flaming hoop whilst whistling the star spangled banner to evade the fearsome beast, but my timing was off and I was being weighed down by an extra 40 grams of herbal remedy.

The sparrow nipped at my thighs and stung my upper dorsomous lateralious causing me to tumble down the tips of the mountaintop into a patch of thorny brambles. The brambles were planted nearly 30 years earlier by a small dwarven nymph that goes by the name of Shelly Handcocker but that is an entirely different story involving twice as many swallows and quite a few gags which may cause the audience to spit in laughter, verily making the telling an inconvenience to the speech currently in production.

Pulling myself up from the brambles I scurried into a small hole in the mountainside, fearful of the bone-chilling predator. The hole was quite comfortable, easily accompanying a man of my stature where one must be wary of not only length but girth as well. In fact, the hole was so roomy that it enticed my curiosity for adventure. I knew not where the hole led, but in the next 41 minutes, I soon found out.

39 minutes later I found myself lost among the winding caverns wishing for some sort of sustenance to quell my roaring hunger when all of a sudden I tripped over a small recess in the floor and fell to the ground. Mumbling obscenities and curses to no one in particular, I arose to find before me a glorious cabinet made of the finest mahogany.

Smooth engravings of wondrous caliber excited the tentacles on my right hand in such a way as to raise the hair follicles on the back of my scrotum. Sensing the wonder behind the impeccably stained cabinet, I gingerly attended to the opening of the cabinet doors. What I found lurking in the misty confines of the dank darkness of decadent distastefulness was none other than a plump bag of Frito potato chips. It was at this point in the story where my fate is to be laid out before yonder audience.

As stated previously I was indeed famished and acutely aware of the 12/24/11 expiration date, but unawares as to the fine print. Munching vigorously upon the salted contents, I gave only a passing glance to the inner print of the bag itself. In bold scrawling scrawls was scrawled in print: Thank you for eating our Fritos. They are magical, but only after 12/24/11.

Well I learned in the next two minutes that what they meant as 12/24/11 was really December 24th 1911 and what they were referring to when they said magical was really: horrendously bad diarrhea and vomiting that led me to my untimely demise some 65 years later.

It is with my dying breath that I tell this tale of horror, still in my comfortable little hole and still emptying what paltry remains my bowels contain on the cool dirt floor. I only hope that the sparrow does not hear the rantings of my flatulence or the scribbling of my tale on the "Fat lil' Notebook" I found in the cabinet along with a knife to poke my finger in order to substitute blood for ink...though, I must admit that after 65 years I could just use the blood now leaking from my...oh dear, here comes the sparrow...