Vending Machine Bandit
As usual, I had forgotten to put my John Hancock on the sub sign-in sheet. You would think that into my fourth year subbing in Clover Park, I would have adjusted to this routine. Impressively, the power of the mind to forget mundane, but important tasks far outstripes the memory of patterns. After wishing our long-suffering head secretary a good weekend, and making a promise (of the pie-crust promise, as Mary Poppins would say) to not forget again, I made yet another attempt to head out towards my car. Walking down the hall, something caught my eye, and awakened the senses of one well-experienced to working in an office setting: a snack caught in the vending machine. The wheels in my head shook off the dust, and begin spinning furiously. I casually looked both ways for witnesses, being the criminal mastermind that I am. The coast was clear, and I nonchalantly feed my change into the machine, laughing maniacally on the inside ("THE HOT CHEETOS ARE MINE! MUWHAHAHAHAHAHA"). T...