Bash Mendez must save his favorite snack food from getting ruined by being turned into a gluten-free, sugarless, tasteless, and ultimately useless food by the nation's most zealous health nuts.
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When Bash Mendez realizes...
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In his recliner and protected head-to-feet by the seclusion of a 100% cotton sheet, Bash blared intense Pandora music through his headphones and into his mind. Eyes closed under a night-shade, he floated away from the Creamy disaster enveloping his life.
From the deep dark recesses of his conscience, he saw a faint light far away, tiny like a distant star. It grew and left a trail of light in its path. Vaguely, then more and more, he saw the trail was a string of letters. To his surprise he could now read the words they spelled and the moment of his enlightenment was so intensely near and exciting, yet looming, and they said: "Ready for a great snack? Maybe a Creamy? Oh, I'm sorry, those aren't available now. Try a delicious classic Ding Dong...".
Buddha stood at attention watching her master suddenly flailing and yelling, looking like a confused and angry ghost under a blanket. His headphones were still taunting him like a nightmare he couldn't escape. "Put a Ding Dong in your mouth and I guarantee..." Finally Bash yanked off the headphones and emerged with his hair looking wild and the night-shade covering one eye. "Geez! I knew I shoulda paid that $3.99 for no Pandora commercials."
He reached out with an arm and checked his phone. "Hey Buddha," he said, "guess what everyone's tweeting about."
Buddha looked at him with no expression.
"My favorite ... former favorite snack. For the first time in my life, I don't have a favorite snack. I mean I do, but ... it's gone."
#
"Addiction helpline, please hold."
"NO!" Bash yelled into the phone. "I can't hold on anymore, not for you, not for anyone! I need help!"
"Oh my," said the woman. "We can help, we sure can. What are you having trouble with?"
"I'm an addict. My name is Bash Mendez and I am an addict!"
"What are you addicted to?"
He grabbed the phone with both hands and looked into it as if he was grabbing the woman's face and looking into her eyes. He whispered in his most reverent voice, "Creamy Mimis".
"Sir, this is a serious hotline for serious people who need serious help." And with that, the call ended.
Bash dropped the phone and stared at the ceiling. "Why?! Why do you curse me with this thirst I cannot quench?! Aaaaah!"
Buddha howled along with her master's cries of anguish, and in his pain and her support, they were one.
#
Waking from a nap, he rubbed his eyes and flipped on the kitchen light. Buddha sat upright and looked at him.
"There's only one thing left to do, Buddha. Eat so much that I hate food. It's the only way."
Like a mad cook, Bash sprang into action and cooked all the noodles he could find and piled them into a large mixing bowl. Topping it with ladles of spaghetti sauce and Parmesan cheese, he knew there was no turning back. This was, as they say, rock bottom.
When the gorge was over, Buddha slept at his feet on the dining room floor. Three-fourths into the feeding frenzy, Bash felt sickness wash over him in a cold flush. He jumped up to run to the bathroom, but in that instant his body shut down and he collapsed to the floor. His arm hit the bowl on the way down and it flipped through the air, spraying noodles and red sauce all over the ceiling, walls, floor, and Bash. If anyone was ever viciously murdered by spaghetti, this is how it looked.
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