From a distance I couldn’t exactly make out what it was, but I didn’t have to. The sound gave it away: Crunch, Crunch, Crunch Crunch, Crunch, Crunch Crunch, Crunch, Crunch Then, of course, there was the smell. Nothing comes close to the delicately scented aroma of extra crispy, extra extra salty, extra extra extra greasy Chippy Chipper Potato Chips—the chips preferred by heart surgeons around the world (who are looking for more bypass operations to perform). When I got close enough to see the details, it was exactly as I feared. There in the middle of the driveway was a giant mound of potato chips. And there, at the top of that mound, happily eating his way down to the bottom, was my ol’ pal Opera. “Opera!” I shouted. “Opera, what’s going on?” Munch, Munch, Munch Munch, Munch, Munch Munch, Munch, Munch “Opera!” “He can’t hear you.” I spun around to see Wall Street standing in the front doorway. “What happened?” I asked. “What’s all this about?” “Remember the last thing we typed on Ol’ Betsy about Choco Chum ordering a dump truck load of chips?”
What do You think about My Life As A Computer Cockroach?
