Lack Toes In Taller Ants.

I snuck downstairs for one last crack
at that compromised half-gallon of 1% milk
that I bought last week and forgot about.
In a rare consumer slip I'd failed to check
the expiration date when selecting it;
I usually sift through the containers
until I find the one with the latest date
but she was on her way to my house
and I was running late and it was bad enough
that we'd argue over whether or not the "sell-by" date
is in fact a scientifically established shelf-life or
a mere estimated suggestion to be flippantly ignored.
That plastic jug hid behind the spiced tomato juice
which had commandeered the short-lived role that the
infamous Bloody Mary managed to play in my life
until this evening when I shuffled some
fridge-dwellers aside in search of something
that I had yet to identify. The date printed
in faint blue ink jumped out at me like a cackling
maniac, pointing and sneering and winning the war.
Today was the day. I couldn't let it go to waste.
I went to the cupboard for chocolate chip cookies
and began nibbling at them ravenously
washing every bite down with a man-sized swig of milk.
A paranoid sector in the sensory perception department
of my central nervous system detected a slightly foul taste
since it was just past midnight and therefore
one day overdue already, but I rejected the notion
that minutes mattered when it came to things such as rot.
Before I knew it most of the half-gallon was gone
swishing around in my gurgling belly. Back in high school
one of the more sadistic fast-food managers bet two of the
slower kids who worked in the kitchen that they couldn't drink
an entire half-gallon of milk in ten minutes without throwing up
shortly afterwards. I, being trusted with the critical task of
timely customer service via drive-thru, was too clever to fall
for such an obvious trick. Here I am, however, ten years later
doing it to myself by my own volition-- but I swear I'm not
my worst enemy. It's them pesky cows, Your Honor.