Psychic Croissants in... Taking One For The Team!

I stumbled into the kitchen this morning feeling particularly peckish. Scrambled eggs and cottage cheese! With hot sauce! As usual! I was reaching under the counter for the scrambler pan when I heard a muffled throat clearing. Slight, yet haughty. Polite, yet arrogant. I rolled my eyes and turned around. Sure enough. White bag of croissants. Rustling.

"What, man?" I asked, exasperated. "I told Randy I didn't want croissants! You're not for me, you're for Chris. And he's still sleeping. So keep playing word games or whatever." And I turned back to the stove. But it's never that easy.

"Um...?" began the bag. "But, why, though? I mean, you know, why?" That damned cherry-filled.

"Because you're huge! You're just a huge, big, giant ball of dough! With.. cherries. And icing. And anyway, you're Chris's."

The bag tittered. "Actually, Chris isn't going to get up for another four and a half hours. And then he's not going to feel well so he's going to go sit in the steam room at the gym." That fucking cream cheese-filled. "He'll give two old men a sinus infection. One of them will have to take Ciprofloxacin. "

"Guys, no. Stop it. I'm having eggs."

"You're out of eggs."

Shit. No point in even looking, then; cream cheese-filled is never ever wrong.

I look at the bag. The bag looks at me.

"I have an icing heart on me this time!" sings cherry-filled, rocking back and forth. And what am I supposed to do then?

"You're going to eat us both," reports cream cheese-filled happily. "And then later, you'll be brushing crumbs off of your shirt and you'll get a big croissant flake up your nose. You'll smell croissants for like three hours." And then they both burst out laughing like little schoolgirl croissants.

Psychic croissants: always right, but a sense of humor like a bag of rocks.