As the quicksand pulled him under, Mordecai struggled to finish his bag of Sour Cream and Onion Flavored Ruffles. They were delicious. He knew there was only a moment’s time left for him to savor his greasy crinkle-cut treat, and afterward there would be no more Ruffles … only darkness.
With a salty mouth like the rim of a margarita, he shouted at the swirling cyclone of sludge.
“Not today quicksand, these are my Ruffles! It is I who paid $1.09 at Chevron, not you! You are just dirt; you can’t even handle money!”
The Earth had smelt his delightfully greasy snack food and had opened up its terrestrial mouth to take a bite. This giant face of dirt was slurping Mordecai down like a warm, slippery spaghetti noodle.
But it was getting harder to dump handfuls of potato chips into his mouth, now that his elbows were submerged in the thick muck. With arms trapped in the quicksand’s grimy grasp, he was unable to bring his trembling grease-covered hands to his mouth. He began to fling the chips at his face. The Sour Cream and Onion Flavored Ruffles somersaulted through the air like a small acrobat at a Cirque du Soleil show, and one bad toss could mean disaster.
And sure enough, a fatal flick of the wrist sent a potato chip twirling 2.3 degrees too far to the left. The chip rolled across Mordecai’s cheek, slicing a trail of grease into his face. It ramped off of his ear like the Evel Knievel of processed snack foods and fell catastrophically into the quicksand.
“You don’t even have taste buds quicksand, feeding these potato chips to you would be a waste. I would never squander such savory flavors on you, you unconscious mud toilet! My crunchy cuisine, so scrumptious and sweet, never would I ever let you sink to my feet.”
But before the sinkhole’s gluttonous gullet could covet Mordecai’s prize, he savagely stabbed forward with his head toward the landing site and scooped a mouthful of quicksand muck with his quivering mouth. He realized the dangers he faced but there was no turning back.
“This is it,” he thought. “It’s time to bite the big one.”
His jaw tightened. His teeth violently crashed together, creating a deafening thunderclap sending the jungle creatures miles away scampering for higher ground.
“Om nom nom,” he said.
He anticipated a foul, abhorrent taste to plague his senses with pain but what he got instead was the complete opposite. The flavor was incredible; the tang simply sang. This combination of Ruffles and quicksand tasted like a vat of God’s body odor, stirred by angels.
With a face full of dirt, Mordecai chuckled like an overweight warthog.
“Well, well, quicksand, it looks like I’ve found your weakness—you’re utterly delicious.”
But he hadn’t gotten out of danger yet. Swallowing a mango-sized glob of quicksand could mean death; the chunky ground chowder could potentially cling to the inner linings of his esophagus, impede the flow of air inside his windpipe and suffocate him. But if there was one thing that Mordecai knew, it was that to live a life without Ruffles would be worse than no life at all.
Slapping fate across the face, Mordecai took a deep breath and swallowed. The muddy clump of sludge slammed into his gag reflex like Gallagher taming a watermelon.
“Keep it down, keep it down!” he exclaimed, in his thoughts.
The quicksand made its way around the bend toward his throat. The moment of truth was upon him. If it clung to his throat, he would breathe his last.
To his amazement, it slid through and deposited safely into his stomach. His esophagus was coated in canola oil and grease that he paved the way for the mire with their lubrication. At that moment, a beacon of hope was ignited.
Mordecai let out a fierce battle cry.
“Get ready for a taste of your own medicine, quicksand!”
Like a human vacuum, he wildly began to eat his way out of the quicksand. Fighting the rising tide, he eventually freed his right arm. Using a potato chip as a shovel, he rapidly ladled slimy chunks of gunk into his face, eating the executioner before it ate him. Soon he had freed both arms and was madly double-fisting quicksand at lightning speed, alternating one after the other.
“Left, right, left, right.”
It was down to his belly button.
“Left, right, left, right.”
It was down to his knees.
“Left, right, left, right.”
It was down to his ankles.
“Left, right, left, right.”
It was down to his feet.
It was time for the finishing blow. Unhinging his jaw like a Burmese python, Mordecai lodged the remainder of the quicksand into his mouth and guzzled down victory.
He had defeated the nefarious quicksand, protecting his Ruffles from a meaningless death. He did a little dance and went into a soliloquy.
“Slain in my belly, you will suck no more wicked quicksand! With your demise, my life’s hourglass has been refilled.”
“And now, liberated from your trap, I can continue to partake in what my heart perpetually beckons me to do. I may once again indulge in the one thing by which I am satisfied, I shall feast on my only antidote for this poisonous world,” triumphed Mordecai. “Interpretative ribbon dancing!”
