Kronos Workforce Central®: I am going to time travel to preemptively murder the parents of your developers such that you are never encoded!

For years now, el señor B and I have had a major disagreement. Our point of contention: one lonely Cheeto (I propose that this is the proper singular form for the crunchy, artificially cheese-flavored corn puffs known as Cheetos®). I wish that this was going to be a hilarious story illustrating just how cool I am but no; no, it's merely narrative proof of el señor B's penchant for holding long-term grudges over dubious circumstances.

I myself prefer the crunchy variety of Cheetos®, not the poofy ones. And I don't mean poofy the way those crazy Brits and Aussies mean it.

The story finally begins thus: we were on a climbing trip. I don't remember where, although I'm sure el señor B does, but for the sake of simplicity let us assume it was Devil's Lake. We stopped at a gas station for snacks. Somehow junk food actually tastes good to me on climbing trips, and so I opted for a smallish bag of Cheetos®. Now normally I don't eat much of that kind of junk and after half of the bag, feeling rather ill, I bequeathed the remaining portion of Cheetos® to el señor B. Graciously, he accepted my gift, which did not surprise me as his eating abilities are one of the many reasons I admire him. I passed the bag from my position at the rear of the driver's seat up to el señor B, who was driving since it was his car we were traveling in. As far as I was concerned, that was the last anyone would ever hear about the Cheetos®.

I was wrong.

So wrong.