Charlie the Hog

There’s always one, isn’t there? You know: the Hog! The guy who takes your last beer out of the fridge. That guy. That’s Charlie, alright.

Every Friday night , me and the lads get together to watch the game. It’s become a tradition. Whoevers turn it is buys the pizzas and a few cold ones. Charlie always eats more than his fair share, but the worst bit is his hogging of the parmesan cheese. He devours the stuff, and that shit isn’t cheap.

“You got any parmesan?” he demands one evening.

“Oh sorry, Charlie! I think I’ve  got a bit left in the fridge,” I reply with a smile. “Hang on, I’ll go get it for you.”

I return moments later with a jam jar, half full of creamy powder flakes. I’ve even punched some holes into the lid to make it easier to shake out.

Charlie the Hog shakes the jar for a few seconds and then grows impatient. His pizza is getting cold, so he unscrews the lid and pours the cheesy flakes onto his plate of pizza. He nearly empties the jar, not offering any of the cheese to the other guys.

Taking a huge bite, he mumbles between a mouthful of pizza, “This stuff tastes a bit strange. Has it gone off?”

“Nah! I only got it today.” I reply, trying to keep a straight face. “It’s a new chicken flavoured variety. I bought it from that new deli that opened up in town. I thought it’d go well with your Hawaiian.”

“Cool!” Charlie takes another big bite of his pizza, slugging it down with one of my beers.

The other lads smile, but say nothing. They’re all in on the joke. We’d been saving dandruff for the last couple of weeks so we can fill up the jar. I’d even gone as far as emptying the callus flakes out my wife’s Pedispin, to add some body to the mixture and additional flavour.

We’d all had enough of Charlie the Hog. It was time for some payback.

Charlie still doesn’t know that he’s a cannibal now.

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