Poor College Student meets her chip-loving match

It was just another day on the job. My family had invited me home this particular weekend… It was just another day on the job. My family had invited me home this particular weekend under the pretense of a “ski trip,” but I had other plans – top secret ones. From the moment I arrived at the unsuspecting suburban home, I began my mission: to obtain as many free things as possible.

I’d been home only seconds and had grabbed a can of Diet Coke out of our garage – just one of many that would fall victim to me that weekend. After making sure I hadn’t been spotted, I slinked inside, stealthily moving the soda out of sight like a highly trained cat burglar.

Everything was working out just as I had planned. No one even suspected that it hadn’t been little, innocent Molly who walked through the door but my malicious alter ego, Poor College Student.

Poor College Student is entirely ruthless, the kind of person who would sell out her own sister for a couple of boxes of Fruit By the Foot. She’s always looking for her next windfall: food, toiletries, cleaning supplies, pennies off the street, anything she can get her hands on.

But this weekend was not like the others. This weekend, things went tragically awry.

It was the second day when things fell apart. While scouting out my kitchen cupboard, I found the most glorious of all snack foods: Sun Chips.

I adore Sun Chips. It’s kind of like Popeye and his spinach. And there it was, sitting there, right in the middle of the shelf, as if all the rest of the snack food world revolved around its delicious, multi-grained goodness. I knew if I took the bag, my family would surely notice it was gone, but damn if I wasn’t looking forward to those chips.

So I did it. I took the bag, and I ate what was left of it – down to the very last chip.

That night, my dad called me up to our family room. It smelled like a combination of cigars, hard liquor and Morningstar Farms’ breakfast links, so I knew I was in trouble.

“Molly,” he began slowly, “do you know where the Sun Chips are?”

I played it off with a quick, “Gee, I don’t know, Dad. I didn’t even know we had Sun Chips.”

Unfortunately, I underestimated his perseverance

“Well, this morning there was half a bag of Sun Chips, and now it’s missing. I didn’t eat it, and your mom says she didn’t eat it, and your sister says she didn’t eat it, so unless it just mysteriously disappeared, somebody is lying!”

His voice was slow and steady, an inquisitive monotone drawl that makes me extremely nervous.

“I swear it wasn’t me.”

My dad let out a low sigh and pulled something out of his coat pocket. I couldn’t quite make it out, but it had an ominous look to it.

“I didn’t want to have to do this, but just remember this is your own fault,” he told me. Suddenly, Elton John’s greatest hits started playing from the living room.

As the repetitive refrains of “Rocket Man” began to burn my ears, I started clawing at my head in a desperate attempt to get it out.

“This is only the beginning,” he said, “if you don’t tell me what I want to hear!”

His hand reached for his coat again, preparing to coordinate yet another assault. Out came “Dog Whisperer: The Complete First Season.” He shook it menacingly, and the sharp glare of Cesar Milan’s bald head caused me to turn my head in pain.

“I can keep this up forever, if this is what you want your life to be like,” he told me, his face in a crooked leer.

I was trapped. I knew it would be mere seconds before Cesar’s voice began instructing me on the proper way to call out a dog’s name, something I had already heard at least seven times too many, so I finally gave in and told him the dirty, calorie-filled truth: “I did it. I ate the chips, and I’d do it again if I had the chance!”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” he said before leaving me alone, shaking and exhausted on the couch. When I looked down, there was a single piece of crumpled paper lying next to me. Inside was a short message written in a childlike scrawl.

It read: “Touch the Sun Chips again and things will go far worse for you. I can make Elton John look like milk toast!”

The next day I left home with food, clean laundry and a bottle of Windex but not with my dignity. No, that was stolen by a 50-year-old man and a bag of Sun Chips.

Do you believe that Elton John’s entire discography should be considered illegal under the Eighth Amendment? Then start a “Ban Elton John FOREVER” petition with Molly at mog4@pitt.edu.