Vending Machines at the Vatican

Whether you're punching the buttons to get a soft Twinkie, or secretly shaking the machine to get those Hostess Pink Snowballs, vending machine food always fulfills some deep need in mankind's innate depravity.

I usually don't visit a vending machine until I'm desperately hungry, but that's where they get me. I step up to the glass and start looking at all the delicious items. I look up at the bag of trail mix, and then over to the bag of cookies, and then down at the glazed honey bun god. I see the bun beckon me, calling my name for help.

To appease the victim (and my rumbling stomach), I open my wallet and begin ironing out the crumpled bill in my hand. I slowly insert the bill, and wait to see the credit appear on the digital screen above the keypad. For some reason, the bill always comes back, so I begin ironing it out again and insert it once more. It always works on the second (or sixth) try.

I type in the appropriate vending machine code "B23" and wait for the snake coil to release the forbidden treat. I watch the snake unravel its tail, as it releases my beautiful, glazed honey bun. I bite my bottom lip during the its descent, praying that the sacred glaze doesn't crack when it hits the bottom.

When it finally arrives, I'll cradle it in my arms for a couple minutes, checking for any scratches or bruises.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm. I sure love those honey buns.