One Sunday morning, the warm sun came up and there, in his crib, was a very hungry toddler.

He ate some cookies and one half of a chicken nugget with the coating rubbed off and half a bottle of ketchup. But he was still hungry.

On Monday, he ate two bananas, one tablespoon of almond butter with most smeared on the table and in his hair and a Family Size box of Cheerios, but he was still hungry.

On Tuesday, he ate 30,000 goldfish, but he was still hungry.

On Wednesday, he ate a couple of crunchy rice thingies that seemed vaguely healthy, and gleefully ground one into the couch and all of its crevices. Then he gnashed his terrible teeth and roared his terrible roar and…. Oh, wait, wrong story. Anyhoo, he was still hungry.

On Thursday, he downed a couple hundred applesauce pouches, but he was still hungry.

On Friday he ate through a half slice of all-natural-antibiotic-free turkey, one pea, one strand of spaghetti, one yogurt that he insisted on eating with a fork, one-eighth of a chicken sausage also without preservatives or anything bad of course, one cupcake, and one-sixteenth piece of organic cheese, but then he spit it out onto the floor.

That night his belly hurt, and he used it as an excuse for postponing bedtime.

The next day was Saturday. The toddler gnawed on some construction paper and after that he felt much better.

Now he wasn’t hungry anymore—and he wasn’t a little toddler any more. He was a big old hangry toddler who was never satisfied with his meals.

He built a small fort out of blankets. He stayed inside for all of three minutes, then he pushed his way out. Where was his applesauce pouch? AND HIS GOLDFISH?!!!!

The end.



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