Degradation

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Godspeed to the pudding packers

Godspeed to the pudding packers

Unabridged Unexpurgated
Marcus Maleus
Opinions Editor

Today I got screwed.

Don't get too excited though – it wasn't toe-twitching, shriek-inducing sex. Rather, I paid $1.25 for cucumber and herb cream cheese at CentreSpot (bagel not included).

Ah, CentreSpot – where realistic pricing is thrown to the wind, pizza appears to come with a neat little rubber coating and bright neon lights and flat-screen cash register monitors lure us into the land of ten dollar lunches.

To be honest, I feel stupid about it. By now, I should know better than to purchase food at CentreSpot.

It's a lesson we all learn in our first month at Western – eating at CentreSpot strips you of more than just hard-earned (or hard-borrowed) cash, it strips you of peace of mind.

Come November, I feel guilty even smelling CentreSpot food, knowing the lovely hot-dog lady is fighting sleet, snow, rain and wind, just to give us great food at down-to-earth prices.

Some good has come out of all this – I now pack my own lunch once in a while. It's hard not to get a tear of nostalgia in my eye as I pack my gummy bears and peanut-butter sandwiches in a little brown bag. I even try hard to forget what I made, so when I get to school and open my bag, I can cheer or boo with surprise at its contents.

I yearn for the day when the fat lady sings, the cows come home, pigs fly and prices at CentreSpot aren't fished out of Uncle Scrooge's ass.