The Refrigerator Chronicles

The last time we peaked inside the refrigerator door the light was off and a coup was taking place. The cheese, yogurt and luncheon meat on the third shelf had been conspiring to take over the top shelf, where the milk and orange juice were having a conference.

“OJ,” said Moo Milk. “I’m hearing talk of a coup from Eggsy, a reliable source . . . of protein.”

OJ sighed. “I’m sick of being incarcerated here with low shelf-life’s in flimsy packaging. I’ve got Vitamin C and A. What do they’ve got? Nothing but saturated fats and chemicals.”

“That might be true,” replied Moo Milk. “But they’ve got something else, something that curdles my innards.”

“What’s that?” asked OJ. “What could be so bad?”

“They’ve got those nasty silver-backed sippers. They’re a canny bunch. They’ve got numbers. I tell you. A 48 pack of 12 percenters that can blind-side you with a pop of the can.” He paused. “They can roll, too. We’ll be lucky if we make it to Monday, the last date of sale.”

“Baloney!” yelled OJ. “All they’ve got is baloney, fake cheese and that razzle dazzle yogurt punk, Bifidus Schmifidus. We’ve got all the big guns up here: That tall French Dude, Christoff Champagne, really packs a punch.”

“Nah, he’s only good for one pop, then he fizzles.”

“Well, what about Ruby Red, the tall slender-neck tomato, facing the pathetic leftovers in the back?”

“Sure, OJ. She’ll get their attention, but when she opens her mouth, she can’t control all those nasty noises. Ain’t that right Beano?” He yelled. No answer. “What’s with Beano? She usually hangs out on the shelf on the door.”

“You didn’t hear? She’s an Empty Nester now. Everything that was once part of her life is gone. She’s heading off to Recycle Beach, Florida to have some work done. Too bad. I’m going to miss her. She was a upstanding neighbor with strong moral fiber. I’m not the religious type but tonight as I recite my ingredients before bed, I’m going say a prayer for Beano.” Moo Milk sighed. “You’re religious aren’t you, OJ? What’s it called . . .?”

“Acidic. I’m Acidic. I never pour on Saturday’s.”

to be continued . . .

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