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"). The vending machine sprang into action, pushing out the bag that would knock both down into my waiting clutches. I could hear it whistle as it made its monumental descent from the top row of snacks, and watched with smug satisfaction as it scored a direct hit on the intended target. But what was this? The first bag remained stuck just above the opening. Noooooooooooooooo! While I rationalized the loss as a victory for my diet, I shook my fist surreptitiously at the machine, threatening under my breath, "Next time machine...next time..."

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