Last Monday somebody stole my burrito. It happened at Frary. The burrito had sour cream and beef and guacamole. I bet it was delicious. I waited maybe 20 minutes until I was certain of the fact. Then I stole somebody’s burrito. Sorry. It was the oldest one sitting there; I hope you didn’t still want it. Today I ate at Frary again. It was personal pizza night. The man behind me clearly did not understand what ‘personal’ meant. He waited maybe five minutes in the agonizingly long line before simply absconding with the meatiest looking pizza in sight.
Frary has become a den of iniquity blighting our campus: its well-intentioned honor system brings out the worst in everybody. But alas, what is to be done? I’m in no position to offer an institutional solution so I’ll have to settle for a good finger wag. You, the guy who steals burritos. Yes, you. Shame on you. What would your mother think?
When you steal a burrito you steal so much more than a mere bundle of meat and bean and rice. You steal the very trust which binds us together as a community. It was probably the Burrito Thief who stole my skateboard too. Do you steal bikes? Laptops? Cars? Where does it stop? What lines can be drawn? This cafeteria theft is the earliest sign of a creeping moral decay which will no doubt end only when we have descended so far into the depths of depravity as to be indistinguishable from beasts.
Or maybe I’m wrong altogether and my tired bourgeoisie morality is only standing in the way of modernity. Why must I be held captive by pathetic self doubt? The Burrito Thief has no doubts. He sees and he takes. He is some sort of nietzschean Übermensch free from the shackles of conventional morality. We are sheep and he is an eagle soaring above us, burritos clutched in his talons.
I don’t really know where this is going anymore but I guess that’s what you get when you brave the moral quandaries of burrito theft. Whatever the exact implications of cafeteria burglary, it’s not very nice. I promise I’ll stop. You first though.