D.T. Tucker | Updates

Obesseus vs. Absolute Value The Breadstick Containment Crisis

D.T. Tucker — Sat, 28 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Professor Math wrote carefully on the board:

| x |

Josh Jollyrancher stood beside him like a disappointed lemon.

“This,” Professor Math said calmly, “is absolute value.”

Obesseus leaned forward.

“…Why the chopstick number in breadstick jail.”

Josh closed his eyes. “They are not breadsticks.”

“It two long crispy bars,” Obesseus said. “They imprisoning the x.”

Professor Math adjusted his glasses. “Absolute value means the distance from zero.”

Obesseus gasped.

“THEY MEASURE HOW FAR CHOPSTICK NUMBER ESCAPED.”

“No,” Professor Math said. “It simply makes negatives positive.”

Obesseus froze.

“…So if number sad, they force it to smile.”

Josh hesitated.

“…In a way.”

Obesseus pointed at the board.

“You put negative number inside breadstick cage… and when it come out, it happy?”

Professor Math nodded weakly. “Yes.”

Obesseus stood up dramatically.

“THAT EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION.”

Josh grabbed the chalk.

| -5 | = 5

“There,” he said. “Simple.”

Obesseus stared.

“So five go in mad… and come out pretending nothing happened.”

The classroom got quiet.

Professor Math began sweating.

Obesseus slowly reached into his pocket.

He pulled out two actual breadsticks.

He placed them upright on his desk.

He set a meatball between them.

“This absolute meatball,” he declared.

Josh shouted, “STOP MAKING EDIBLE EXAMPLES.”

Obesseus lifted the meatball.

“When meatball inside breadstick… it safe.”

“That’s not the concept!”

“But if meatball negative… breadstick hug it until positive.”

Professor Math blinked.

“…That is disturbingly close.”

Josh erased the board frantically.

Obesseus pointed at the bars again.

“So absolute value is breadstick hug that erase sadness.”

Professor Math sighed.

“…Yes.”

Obesseus smiled proudly.

“Math just comfort food.”

The lights flickered.

The vertical bars on the board began stretching.

They grew taller.

Longer.

Crunchier.

The x tried to escape.

The breadsticks snapped shut.

The classroom trembled.

Obesseus grabbed his gravy bucket.

“If breadstick cage try to take my numbers, I respond with sauce.”

Gravy flew.

The bars dissolved.

The x rolled away free and emotionally balanced.

Josh collapsed into a chair.

Professor Math stared at the empty board.

“We should never have used vertical lines.”

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Taxes vs. Grant the Grapefruit & Obesseus

D.T. Tucker — Sun, 15 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The clock struck midnight.

Grant the Grapefruit stared at it.

The clock struck 12:01.

Grant blinked.

The clock struck 12:05.

Silence.

Grant slowly lowered the pen.

“…I am five minutes late.”

Across the room, Obesseus gasped like someone had just dropped a tray of biscuits.

“THE TAXES ARE COMING.”

Professor Math froze mid-calculation.

Grant stood up stiffly. “It is a minor administrative delay.”

The lights flickered.

A knock echoed through Snackland Press.

Three slow knocks.

Obesseus dove behind a filing cabinet.

“THEY SMELL THE GRAVY.”

Grant adjusted his tie, but it was trembling.

“No one smells gravy. This is digital submission.”

The door burst open.

In walked… a giant envelope.

It wore sunglasses.

It said NOTICE across its chest.

Obesseus screamed.

“IT WALKING.”

Professor Math fainted into a stack of receipts.

Grant attempted diplomacy. “We apologize for the five-minute delay.”

The envelope tilted its head.

A loud ripping sound echoed.

Paper forms shot out like ninja stars.

Obesseus retaliated immediately.

He hurled a biscuit.

Direct hit.

Grant threw a grapefruit slice like a shuriken.

The envelope dodged.

Professor Math woke up and launched a calculator.

Obesseus grabbed a ladle of gravy and flung it dramatically.

“NO TAX SHALL TAKE MY SAUCE.”

The envelope screeched, stamping the floor with giant red letters:

LATE FEE.

Grant’s monocle nearly popped off.

“Impossible. I schedule everything.”

“You five minutes late!” Obesseus yelled. “You broke time.”

Grant looked at the clock in horror.

“Daylight savings…”

The envelope grew larger.

It unfolded into multiple forms.

Schedules A through Z hovered in the air like hostile paperwork birds.

Obesseus started throwing food indiscriminately.

Sandwich.

Chopsticks.

Donut.

A fraction tile for emotional reasons.

Professor Math attempted to reason with the forms.

“Please! We have itemized deductions!”

The envelope paused.

Grant, sweating citrus oil, shouted:

“Charitable gravy donations!”

Obesseus blinked. “…That a thing?”

Grant whispered urgently, “It is now.”

The envelope trembled.

The red LATE FEE stamp flickered.

Obesseus seized the moment and launched an entire gravy bucket.

The envelope slipped. Forms scattered. Receipts fluttered like defeated confetti.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

Grant straightened his tie.

“…Next year we file early.”

Obesseus, covered in gravy and powdered sugar, nodded solemnly.

“Taxes tried to take sauce.”

Grant sighed.

“They took five dollars.”

Obesseus froze.

“…THAT FIVE DOLLAR WAS FOR BISCUITS.”

Chaos resumed.

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Obesseus vs Taxes( The Gravy Audit )

D.T. Tucker — Tue, 3 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Obesseus knew something was wrong the moment the letter arrived.

No crumbs.

No sauce stains.

No joy.

It said IMPORTANT in big angry letters.

Josh Jollyrancher slid the paper across the table. “You owe taxes.”

Obesseus squinted. “Owe who.”

“The government.”

Obesseus gasped. “THEY KNOW ABOUT THE GRAVY?”

Professor Math adjusted his glasses. “It’s not about gravy.”

“They always say that,” Obesseus whispered.

Josh pointed to the form. “You earned income.”

Obesseus nodded. “Yes. From buffet.”

“And now,” Josh continued, “a portion must be paid.”

Obesseus froze.

“…Portion.”

Professor Math drew a diagram.

Total Gravy − Tax = Net Gravy

The room went silent.

“They taking gravy off top?” Obesseus asked.

“No,” Professor Math said quickly. “It’s proportional.”

Obesseus slammed the table. “PROPORTIONAL GRAVY LOSS IS STILL GRAVY LOSS.”

Josh sighed. “You don’t pay in gravy.”

Obesseus looked around suspiciously. “Then why they want numbers shaped like bowls.”

Professor Math tried a softer approach. “Think of it as contributing to roads.”

“Gravy roads?” Obesseus asked hopefully.

“…Regular roads.”

“So I pay gravy for no gravy road.”

Josh nodded. “Yes.”

Obesseus stood up. “THAT A SCAM.”

Josh flipped to another page. “This is withholding.”

Obesseus’s eyes widened. “THEY WITHHOLD THE GRAVY BEFORE I EVEN SEE IT?”

Professor Math whispered, “He’s learning too fast.”

Josh pointed to a pie chart.

“This shows your tax bracket.”

Obesseus leaned in. “Why gravy in cage.”

“It’s not a cage.”

“It surrounded,” Obesseus said. “Free gravy should roam.”

Josh lost it. “NO ONE IS STEALING YOUR GRAVY.”

At that exact moment, a pipe burst.

Gravy flooded the floor.

Obesseus screamed. “THE AUDIT HAS BEGUN.”

He grabbed his bucket and fled through the door, shouting, “YOU WILL NOT TAKE MY GRAVY.”

Josh stared at the chaos.

Professor Math sighed. “We should have started with deductions.”

A word from the Snackland Financial Advisory :

If Obesseus hears the word portion

during tax season,

hide the gravy.

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Obesseus vs. Parentheses(The Donut Incident)

D.T. Tucker — Sun, 1 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Professor Math approached the board slowly, like someone handling a wild animal.

“We’re going to add parentheses,” he said.

Josh Jollyrancher stiffened. “Carefully.”

Professor Math wrote:

(½x)

Obesseus leaned forward.

“…Why the number in donut.”

Josh inhaled sharply. “It’s not a donut.”

“It round,” Obesseus said. “It hugging the sandwich-chopstick meal. That donut behavior.”

Professor Math tried to explain. “Parentheses group the expression.”

Obesseus nodded. “Yes. Donut contains snack.”

Josh slammed the desk. “NO FOOD IS CONTAINED.”

Obesseus reached into his pocket and pulled out an actual donut.

“Then explain this coincidence.”

The room went quiet.

Professor Math wiped his forehead. “The parentheses mean you solve what’s inside first.”

Obesseus froze.

“…So eat inside donut first.”

“No!” both shouted.

“But donut rule!” Obesseus protested. “You don’t eat plate. You eat middle.”

Josh rewrote the problem bigger.

(½x) + 3

“There,” he said. “Now it’s clear.”

Obesseus stared.

“So donut meal plus side dish.”

Professor Math dropped the chalk.

“That’s… not wrong,” he whispered, horrified.

The x tipped sideways again. The donut parentheses wobbled. The number 3 rolled toward the gravy vent.

Obesseus stood up proudly.

“Math is just lunch with rules.”

The chalkboard exploded into powdered sugar. Gravy alarms screamed. The clock began counting down in fractions.

Obesseus escaped through the door, donut in one hand, sandwich in the other, chopsticks clenched triumphantly in his teeth.

Josh Jollyrancher collapsed into a chair.

Professor Math stared at the empty board.

“We should never have invented circles,” Josh said.

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Obesseus vs Fractions

D.T. Tucker — Wed, 28 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The moment Obesseus saw the fraction, he knew it was a trap.

Professor Math drew it carefully on the board:

Josh Jollyrancher stood beside him, arms crossed, lemon water glowing ominously.

“This,” Professor Math said, “is one-half.”

Obesseus raised his hand. He was already holding a sandwich in the other.

“Yes?” Josh said cautiously.

“Is that sandwich number,” Obesseus asked, pointing at the fraction, “supposed to be eaten… like this?”

He lifted his chopsticks.

Professor Math turned pale.

“That’s not a sandwich,” Professor Math said. “That’s a fraction.”

“It got bread on top and bread on bottom,” Obesseus replied. “Number meat in middle. That a sandwich.”

Josh stepped in. “The line is not bread. It’s a division bar.”

“Why it horizontal,” Obesseus demanded, “if not for stacking food.”

Professor Math grabbed another piece of chalk and drew ¾.

“This means three out of four.”

Obesseus nodded slowly. “So someone already ate one?”

“No.”

“Then why missing?”

Josh slammed the desk. “NO ONE ATE THE FRACTION.”

Obesseus frowned and took a bite of his real sandwich.

“Then why this one allowed and number sandwich not.”

Professor Math attempted a demonstration. He drew a circle and shaded half of it.

“This shows half of a whole.”

Obesseus leaned forward. “Where other half go.”

“It still exists,” Professor Math said.

Obesseus gasped. “INVISIBLE FOOD?”

Josh dropped his lemon water.

“Focus,” Josh said. “You don’t eat the numbers.”

“But they stacked,” Obesseus insisted. “And you put line between them. That is plating.”

Professor Math tried another tactic. He pulled out fraction tiles.

“These represent portions.”

Obesseus picked one up, sniffed it, and immediately dipped it into gravy.

Josh screamed.

“That’s a manipulative!”

“It taste like math,” Obesseus said sadly.

The chalkboard began to shake. Equations slid off the walls. The clock split into numerator and denominator and refused to agree on the time.

Professor Math clutched his head. “We should have started with pizza.”

Obesseus perked up. “Pizza fraction understandable.”

Josh collapsed into a chair.

Obesseus stood, holding his sandwich in one hand and chopsticks in the other.

“So just to be clear,” he said, pointing at ½, “I not supposed to eat sandwich number. Even if it looks delicious.”

“Yes,” Professor Math said weakly.

“Even if I brought chopsticks prepared.”

“Yes.”

Obesseus sighed. “Math cruel.”

The classroom doors burst open. Gravy flooded the room. The fractions dissolved into crumbs.

Obesseus escaped triumphantly.

Josh stared at the ruined lesson. Professor Math sat in silence.

Next to the board, someone had written:

Fractions are food-shaped lies.

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Obesseus vs Algebra

D.T. Tucker — Tue, 27 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Obesseus sat at the desk, squinting at the chalkboard like it had personally insulted his lunch.

Josh Jollyrancher tapped the board with his chalk.

“Two x plus six equals ten.”

Obesseus raised his hand.

“Yes?” Josh said, already tired.

“Why that number got a chopstick?” Obesseus asked.

Josh blinked. “That’s not a chopstick. That’s the letter x.”

“It look like chopstick,” Obesseus said confidently. “Single chopstick. Not even a pair. Very suspicious.”

Josh sighed and wrote a bigger x.

“This is a variable.”

Obesseus leaned forward. “Variable like buffet?”

“No.”

“Variable like sometimes gravy, sometimes lemon water?”

“No.”

“So why number holding chopstick?”

The room went quiet.

Josh pinched the bridge of his nose. “The x represents an unknown.”

Obesseus gasped and slid his chair back.

“Unknown food is dangerous,” he whispered. “That how people get tricked into eating salad.”

Josh tried again.

“You move the six to the other side.”

Obesseus stared. “Why six allowed to leave but chopstick number stays?”

“Because six is a constant.”

Obesseus slammed the desk. “THAT NOT FAIR. All numbers deserve same rights.”

Josh erased the board and drew apples instead.

“If you have two groups of apples…”

Obesseus interrupted. “Are they fried?”

“No.”

“Breaded?”

“No.”

“Then why you bringing them into this.”

Josh’s lemon water glass cracked.

“Focus,” he said. “Solve for x.”

Obesseus squinted at the equation again.

“So… chopstick number plus six equals ten.”

“Yes.”

“If Obesseus eats six…”

“No one is eating the six.”

“…then chopstick number left with four?”

Josh froze.

“…divide by two,” Obesseus continued slowly. “Chopstick number becomes two.”

The chalk snapped in half.

Josh stared. “That’s… correct.”

The classroom shook. The desks rattled. A gravy alarm went off for reasons no one could explain.

Obesseus stood up proudly.

“See?” he said. “Math just hungry.”

Josh Jollyrancher stared into his lemon water.

“Next lesson,” he muttered, “we remove the chopsticks.”

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Award Update: Obesseus Feasts of Legends Earns 5-Star Silver Seal from Readers’ Favorite

D.T. Tucker — Wed, 21 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I’m excited to share that Obesseus: Feasts of Legends has been awarded the 5-Star Silver Seal from Readers’ Favorite.

The book received three independent 5-star editorial reviews, praising its imaginative world-building, fast-paced humor, memorable characters, and all-ages appeal. Readers’ Favorite highlighted the story’s blend of satire, action, and heart, confirming that the Slam-Fu universe delivers both laughs and lasting fun.

This recognition is a meaningful milestone for the Obesseus series and reinforces the long-term vision behind the world of Snackland. Thank you to Readers’ Favorite for the honor—and to everyone who has supported Obesseus along the way.

More adventures (and chaos) ahead.

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BREAKING NEWS FROM SNACKLAND: The Lime Water Incident

D.T. Tucker — Fri, 16 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It started the way most disasters in Snackland do: quietly, suspiciously, and with Julian Jellybean nowhere to be seen but somehow absolutely involved.

Josh Jollyrancher arrived at his Lemon Water Sanctuary at precisely 11:47 a.m. Sharp. The glass pitchers were aligned. The lemons were sliced at regulation angles. The vibes were acidic but peaceful.

He took one sip.

Silence.

Then horror.

“This,” Josh whispered, staring into the cup like it had personally betrayed him, “is not lemon.”

The room trembled.

Somewhere, a citrus cried.

Josh slammed the glass down. “THIS IS LIME WATER.”

Now, to the untrained tongue, lemon and lime might seem like distant cousins who share a zip code. But to Josh Jollyrancher, lemon water is not a drink. It is a lifestyle. A philosophy. A coping mechanism. A legally binding emotional support beverage.

Lime water? Lime water is chaos.

Within minutes, Snackland alarms blared. Josh began pacing in tight circles, muttering things like,

“They changed the pH.”

“They changed the vibe.”

“I didn’t consent to this citrus.”

That’s when Julian Jellybean made his move.

Witnesses later reported Julian calmly strolling into the room, holding a clipboard he absolutely did not own, shaking his head sadly.

“Tragic,” Julian said. “Really tragic. And after Obesseus promised he wouldn’t touch the lemon water again.”

Josh froze.

“…Obesseus?” he asked slowly.

Julian sighed the sigh of someone who had rehearsed this moment in the mirror. “I didn’t want to say anything. But I did see Obesseus near the pitchers earlier. Muttering something about ‘mixing it up’ and ‘green being underrated.’”

Across Snackland, Obesseus was mid-burger. Living his best life. Completely innocent. Completely unbothered. Completely unaware that he was about to be framed for the greatest beverage crime of the decade.

Josh snapped.

“HE WOULDN’T,” Josh yelled, immediately followed by, “BUT HE WOULD, THOUGH.”

Tables flipped. Lemon slices were inspected under emergency lighting. Josh began interrogating the water itself.

“Blink if you’re lime,” he demanded.

Julian, meanwhile, leaned back, smiling just enough to cause problems.

By the time Obesseus arrived, sauce on his hands and confusion on his face, the verdict had already been decided by vibes alone.

“You replaced my lemon water,” Josh accused, eyes wild.

“With lime.”

Obesseus blinked. “Why would I downgrade?”

Too logical. Suspicious.

Julian placed a gentle, fake-concerned hand on Josh’s shoulder. “He doesn’t understand what this means to you.”

That’s when Josh did the unthinkable.

He added sugar.

The room gasped.

A line had been crossed.

Eventually, the truth came out. It always does in Snackland. A single security grape rolled the footage. Julian Jellybean, humming, switching the labels. Lime for lemon. Chaos for calm.

Julian shrugged when confronted. “I just wanted to see what would happen.”

Obesseus was cleared. Josh apologized. The lemon water was restored. Balance returned.

But somewhere in the shadows, Julian Jellybean smiled.

Because in Snackland, the greatest crimes aren’t theft or overtime.

They’re citrus-based psychological warfare.

Stay hydrated.

And trust no Jellybean.

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Obesseus goes to the Food Court

D.T. Tucker — Mon, 12 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The mall was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Obesseus entered the food court and stopped dead in his tracks.

“…Why so many restaurants… in one room.”

His knees buckled.

He grabbed the railing for emotional support.

Before him:

Pizza

Burgers

Chinese food

Tacos

Fried chicken

Pretzels

Ice cream

Obesseus whispered, “This is buffet pretending to be democracy.”

A teenager behind the counter blinked. “Sir, you have to pick one.”

Obesseus laughed nervously.

“…Pick?”

He approached the pizza place first.

“One slice,” the cashier said.

Obesseus nodded.

“One slice… per step.”

He walked to the burger stand.

“One combo,” the worker said.

“Combo mean together,” Obesseus replied. “Yes.”

The Chinese food employee asked, “White rice or fried?”

Obesseus stared at him.

“…Why choose when both alive.”

Trays began stacking.

One tray.

Two trays.

Three trays.

A fourth tray cracked under pressure.

Captain Calorie Counter descended from the escalator like a prophecy.

“THIS ENDS NOW!” he shouted, clipboard glowing. “You’ve violated the One-Meal Rule!”

Obesseus gestured to the food court.

“But room designed for many meals.”

Calorie Counter pointed. “Food courts encourage moderation.”

Obesseus gasped. “Lies with lights.”

Security approached.

“Sir, you can’t eat here.”

Obesseus paused mid-bite.

“…Where supposed to eat food?”

A pretzel fell. Someone screamed.

Ice cream melted in protest.

Obesseus sighed, sat down, and combined everything onto one tray.

“There,” he said proudly. “One meal.”

Silence.

Captain Calorie Counter stared.

“…That’s not what that means.”

Obesseus shrugged.

“Food court confusing. Obesseus adapt.”

The mall evacuated.

The pretzel stand survived.

Barely.

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Obesseus Gets Banned From the Bakery

D.T. Tucker — Thu, 8 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The sign on the door read:

BAKERY — FRESH DAILY

Obesseus smiled.

“Obesseus love fresh.”

He stepped inside.

Three seconds later, the bakery would never be the same.

The smell hit him first—warm bread, sugar, cinnamon, destiny.

His pupils turned into cupcakes.

Behind the counter, Baker Brenda waved politely.

“Samples are one per customer.”

Obesseus nodded respectfully.

“Understood.”

He took one sample.

Then stared at it.

“…Too small to survive alone.”

He placed it gently back.

Then took another to keep it company.

The display case rattled.

Croissants trembled.

A baguette fainted.

“Sir,” Baker Brenda said, slowly, “you can’t touch the glass.”

Obesseus leaned closer.

“…But bread inside waving at Obesseus.”

A tray of cookies came out of the oven.

Steam rose.

Time slowed.

Obesseus whispered, “Cookies in danger. Must rescue.”

He reached.

The tongs bent.

The tray tipped.

Cookies launched across the bakery like delicious frisbees.

One hit the wall.

One hit a child.

The child nodded in respect.

Sprinkles rained from the ceiling.

Captain Calorie Counter burst through the door, clipboard first.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” he shouted. “Those pastries are HIGH RISK!”

Obesseus clutched a muffin.

“Muffin scared. Obesseus protect.”

Captain Calorie Counter pointed. “You’ve exceeded your sample allowance by fourteen.”

Obesseus counted on his fingers.

“…That sound right.”

Chaos escalated.

A cake display collapsed.

A rolling pin escaped and joined the street.

Someone yelled, “THE DONUTS ARE FREEING THEMSELVES!”

Obesseus slipped on powdered sugar and accidentally punched a rack of eclairs into the air.

They formed a rainbow.

Silence.

Baker Brenda slapped a red sign onto the counter.

OBESSEUS — PERMANENTLY BANNED

Obesseus read it carefully.

“…Forever is long time.”

Captain Calorie Counter sighed.

“This is why we have rules.”

Obesseus nodded sadly and walked toward the door.

Then paused.

“…Can Obesseus still smell bakery from sidewalk?”

Baker Brenda considered it.

“…Yes.”

Obesseus smiled.

“Acceptable.”

Outside, a new sign was quietly added:

NO SAMPLES.

NO CHAOS.

NO OBESSEUS.

The bakery reopened the next day.

With stronger shelves.

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Obesseus Goes to Get School Lunch

D.T. Tucker — Mon, 5 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Obesseus entered the school cafeteria like it was a sacred buffet hall.

It was not.

The lights flickered. Trays clattered. Somewhere, a tater tot screamed.

Obesseus grabbed a lunch tray.

The tray immediately bowed under the weight of expectation.

He approached the menu board.

TODAY’S LUNCH

Mystery Meat

Vegetable Side

Milk

Obesseus leaned in close.

“…Why meat have secrets.”

Behind the counter, Lunch Lady Patty squinted.

“One scoop only.”

Obesseus nodded.

“Understood.”

He watched as she dropped a tiny gray cube onto his plate.

The cube landed with a sound like regret.

Obesseus poked it.

It didn’t move.

He poked it harder.

It squeaked.

“…Meat make noise,” he whispered.

The vegetable side followed—an aggressively green pile that smelled like gym class.

Obesseus recoiled so hard his tray tilted, launching the milk carton into the air.

It hit a kid.

The kid accepted his fate.

Suddenly—

WHOOOOOP!

Captain Calorie Counter slid across the floor on his knees, blowing a whistle.

“BALANCED MEAL ALERT!”

He pointed at the tray. “Portion-controlled protein! Mandatory vegetables! Regulated joy!”

The cafeteria groaned.

Obesseus clutched his plate.

“Why lunch feel like punishment.”

Captain Calorie Counter adjusted his glasses. Numbers appeared in the air.

“That meal is exactly 430 calories.”

Obesseus gasped.

“ONLY 430?! What is this—snack?”

The bell rang. Kids sat down.

Obesseus took one bite of the mystery meat.

CRUNCH.

His eyes widened.

“…WHY MEAT HAVE BONES.”

The vegetable touched the meat.

Obesseus screamed.

He jumped onto the lunch table, trays sliding everywhere like dominoes.

“ATTENTION SCHOOL!”

Silence.

“Obesseus demand answers! Why milk warm? Why fork bend? Why pizza look sad on Fridays?”

Captain Calorie Counter shouted, “SIT DOWN OR I’LL MEASURE YOUR WAISTLINE!”

That was the mistake.

Obesseus lifted the tray.

The tray SNAPPED IN HALF.

Chaos erupted.

Milk cartons exploded. Tater tots rolled like marbles. Someone slipped and yelled, “IT’S EVERYWHERE!”

Obesseus sighed, sat back down, and calmly reached into his pocket.

He pulled out his emergency cheeseburger.

Wrapped in foil.

Still warm.

Captain Calorie Counter shrieked. “THAT IS NOT SCHOOL APPROVED!”

Obesseus took a bite.

“School lunch teach Obesseus important lesson,” he said wisely.

Lunch Lady Patty leaned in. “What’s that?”

Obesseus nodded.

“Always pack backup. And never trust meat with secrets.”

The bell rang.

The milk carton remained untouched.

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Obesseus vs Caption Calorie Counter (The New Year’s lollipop incident)

D.T. Tucker — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Snackland was buzzing. Confetti rained, music blasted, and the New Year’s Ball hovered above the city—huge, shiny, and suspiciously round.

Obesseus squinted up at it, licking chocolate off his fingers.

“Ball look… delicious,” he declared. “Is big silver jawbreaker?”

“No!” screamed Captain Calorie Counter, sliding in with a clipboard the size of a door. “That is not food. That is a SYMBOL.”

Obesseus gasped. “Symbol candy?”

Captain Calorie Counter adjusted his glasses, which immediately projected numbers everywhere.

“According to my calculations,” he said smugly, “that ‘symbol’ contains zero calories and therefore zero joy. No eating allowed tonight.”

The crowd booed. Someone threw a cupcake.

Undeterred, Obesseus cracked his knuckles. “If not candy… why shiny? Why dangling? Why teasing Obesseus mouth at midnight?”

The countdown began.

10…

Captain Calorie Counter slapped a giant sticker on Obesseus’ chest: PORTION CONTROL ZONE.

“Step away from the ball! One bite equals infinity calories!”

9…

Obesseus leaned closer. “Infinity calories sound… powerful.”

8…

Captain Calorie Counter frantically flipped his clipboard. “If you eat that, everyone will gain weight retroactively!”

7…

Obesseus paused. “Retro… active… calories?”

6…

Behind them, Grant the Grapefruit whispered, “I’m pretty sure that’s not real,” while being ten minutes late to everything as usual.

5…

Captain Calorie Counter lunged forward, brandishing a tape measure. “I will MEASURE your FUN!”

4…

Obesseus grabbed the ball’s rope. It squeaked.

He froze.

“…Candy make squeak?”

3…

Captain Calorie Counter screamed, “STOP! That’s not sugar—it’s METAL!”

2…

Obesseus sniffed it. Licked it.

“…Definitely not lollipop.”

1…

Midnight struck.

Fireworks exploded. Confetti cannons roared. And Obesseus shrugged.

“Okay,” he said. “If not candy… Obesseus eat rules instead.”

He chomped Captain Calorie Counter’s clipboard in one bite.

CRUNCH.

The calorie projections vanished. The tape measure snapped. Captain Calorie Counter gasped in horror.

“My data!” he cried. “My NUMBERS!”

Obesseus cheered as the crowd erupted.

“Happy New Year! Obesseus resolution is simple,” he announced proudly.

“Eat more. Stress less. And never trust shiny objects.”

Captain Calorie Counter slunk away, muttering, “Next year… I bring decimals.”

Above Snackland, the ball dropped peacefully—uneaten, uncounted, and absolutely judging no one.

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Obesseus’s New Year’s Resolution

D.T. Tucker — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The moment the clock hit midnight, Snackland went quiet.

Not peaceful quiet.

The kind of quiet where something bad is about to happen.

Obesseus stood on the buffet table holding a half-eaten drumstick like it was a microphone.

“OBESSEUS MAKE RESOLUTION,” he announced proudly.

Everyone braced.

Allen Apple dropped his clipboard.

Jeff Jelly pretended he had somewhere else to be.

The Captains stared like they’d smelled broccoli coming.

Obesseus cleared his throat.

“THIS YEAR,” he declared,

“OBESSEUS WILL—”

BOOM!

Fireworks exploded behind him. No one knew who lit them. It might have been Obesseus. It might have been the fireworks themselves panicking.

“—EAT FIRST,” Obesseus continued, unfazed.

“ASK QUESTIONS NEVER.”

The crowd murmured.

“And ALSO,” he added, pointing dramatically,

“OBESSEUS WILL FIX PROBLEMS… BY MAKING THEM BIGGER.”

King Billy Blueberry whispered, “That’s not how fixing works.”

Obesseus nodded seriously.

“Yes.”

Then he continued.

“OBESSEUS WILL:

• Eat forbidden snacks

• Break ancient food rules

• Anger captains

• Anger vegetables

• Anger gods maybe”

The vegetables gasped.

Far away, something ancient and green stirred.

“And MOST IMPORTANT,” Obesseus finished, climbing higher onto the table as gravy sloshed dangerously close to the edge,

“OBESSEUS WILL HAVE FUN.”

There was a pause.

Then Obesseus smiled.

“WHO READY FOR CHAOS?”

No one answered.

So Obesseus jumped.

The buffet collapsed.

The fireworks reignited.

Someone yelled, “WHY IS THE SALAD MOVING?”

And deep beneath Snackland, the God of Vegetables opened one eye and whispered:

“…It begins.”

Happy New Year!

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Obesseus vs. The New Year’s Lollipop

D.T. Tucker — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Snackland gathered beneath the Great Countdown Clock, where confetti cannons trembled and the sky glittered like a spilled sugar jar. Everyone knew the tradition: when the clock struck midnight, the Ball of Time would descend, ringing in the new year with dignity, fireworks, and exactly zero chewing.

Obesseus squinted up at the sky.

“Why… lollipop… falling?” he asked, rubbing his belly thoughtfully. “Is free?”

A hush fell over the crowd.

“No,” groaned Conflicted Tomato. “It’s the ball drop. You don’t—”

But it was too late.

Obesseus’ eyes widened. His pupils turned into candy swirls. “OBESSEUS CLAIM LOLLIPOP!” he roared, leaping forward with heroic enthusiasm and a mouth already open.

From the shadows, the villains emerged.

Grant the Grapefruit swooped in on a fizzy soda can. “Whoa whoa whoa! Time out! I’m, uh—five minutes late—but that’s not candy! That’s time!”

Overlord Onion slammed his staff on the ground. “STOP HIM! If he eats the ball, the year resets to January again!”

Captain Portion Control blew his whistle. “HALT! That is a regulated sphere!”

Captain Fitness flexed. “Think of the calories!”

Captain Calorie Counter screamed, “THAT’S INFINITE SUGAR!”

The countdown boomed across Snackland.

TEN!

Obesseus charged, slipping on confetti and sliding like a runaway bowling ball. Villains piled on—grapefruit rolling, onions crying, whistles blaring.

NINE!

Professor Math frantically chalked equations mid-air. “If Obesseus consumes Time, we get… leftovers?”

EIGHT!

Jeff Jelly attempted overtime paperwork mid-chaos. “If anyone touches the ball, they owe twelve hours—”

Obesseus swatted the clipboard and ate it.

SEVEN!

The villains formed a human (food?) chain. It immediately collapsed.

SIX!

Obesseus leapt. Mouth wide. Destiny imminent.

FIVE!

Grant the Grapefruit hurled a distraction—twelve cups of gravy.

Obesseus paused. “Gravy… after?”

FOUR!

Captain Portion Control fainted.

THREE!

Conflicted Tomato yelled, “It’s NOT a lollipop!”

Obesseus gasped. “NOT?”

TWO!

The ball shimmered, fireworks primed.

ONE!

The ball touched down.

Fireworks exploded. Confetti rained. The crowd cheered.

Obesseus gently licked the ball.

“…Spicy,” he frowned. “Bad lollipop.”

The villains collapsed in relief.

Obesseus shrugged, grabbed a real lollipop from his pocket (where he keeps emergencies), and sat down to watch the fireworks.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR,” he announced proudly, mouth full. “NEXT YEAR… bigger candy.”

The villains exchanged looks.

They all knew.

Next year, they’d need a bigger plan.

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Jeff Jelly’s New Year’s Resolution (A Snackland Disaster)

D.T. Tucker — Tue, 30 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

At exactly 11:59 PM, Jeff Jelly stood on a folding chair in Snackland Press holding a clipboard so powerful it vibrated.

“Before the ball drops,” Jeff announced, adjusting his tie, “I’d like to share my New Year’s resolution.”

Everyone froze.

Obesseus stopped chewing mid-snack.

Allen Apple slowly backed toward the gravy table.

King Billy Blueberry squinted. He had seen this look before.

Jeff Jelly cleared his throat.

“This year,” he said proudly,

“I resolve to… give more overtime.”

The room exploded.

“NOOOOO!” yelled Allen Apple, dropping three schedules at once.

“Overtime is not a gift, Jeff!” shouted King Billy Blueberry.

Captain Fitness immediately started doing push-ups out of pure stress.

Jeff flipped his clipboard dramatically.

“Starting at midnight,” he continued, “everyone gets voluntary mandatory overtime.”

The ball dropped.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 🎊

Jeff started assigning shifts at record speed.

“Allen Apple—double overtime.”

“King Billy Blueberry—symbolic overtime.”

“Captain Fitness—motivational overtime.”

Then Jeff turned slowly toward Obesseus.

Obesseus smiled.

“You give Obesseus overtime?” he asked cheerfully.

Jeff nodded. “Triple.”

Obesseus cracked his knuckles.

“Okay,” Obesseus said. “Then Obesseus resolution too.”

Jeff leaned in. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Obesseus replied.

“Eat clipboard.”

And just like that, Jeff Jelly’s New Year’s resolution lasted six seconds—

which was a new Snackland record.

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Josh Jolly Rancher vs. the Chocolate Sauce Volcano

D.T. Tucker — Tue, 30 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The day started calmly.

Which should have been everyone’s first warning.

At the edge of Snackland, the Chocolate Sauce Volcano bubbled peacefully—thick, glossy rivers of chocolate flowing into neatly labeled vats. Obesseus sat nearby with a spoon the size of a canoe.

“Volcano happy today,” Obesseus said. “Chocolate behaving.”

That’s when Josh Jolly Rancher arrived.

Josh wore his serious face—the one he only used for hydration.

“Everyone relax,” Josh announced. “I’m just making lemon water.”

Conflicted Tomato stiffened.

“Why do you need lemon water… here?”

Josh pulled out a massive glass pitcher. Inside: ice, sliced lemons, and an attitude that said this is about to ruin something.

“Hydration is important,” Josh said calmly. “Also, lemons cleanse toxins.”

The Chocolate Sauce Volcano gurgled.

Obesseus squinted. “Chocolate not toxin.”

Josh stepped closer to the edge. “I’m just going to pour a little.”

“No,” several voices said at once.

Too late.

The lemon water splashed into the volcano.

There was a pause.

Then the chocolate screeched.

The volcano erupted—not with lava, but with angry, sour chocolate sauce, spraying everywhere. Fudge hardened mid-air. Milk chocolate curdled. White chocolate screamed and fled.

“WHY IS IT FIZZY?” Obesseus yelled, shielding his spoon.

Grant the Grapefruit surfed past on a wave of citrus-chocolate foam.

“I’M LATE AND ALSO CONFUSED.”

Jeff Jelly tried to assign emergency overtime. The clipboard melted.

Captain Portion Control fainted.

Captain Calorie Counter screamed numbers that no longer mattered.

Josh Jolly Rancher stared into the chaos.

“…Huh,” he said. “Must’ve been the lemon.”

Obesseus dipped his spoon cautiously into the fallout, tasted it, and frowned.

“Chocolate… broken,” he said softly.

Josh nodded. “Detoxed.”

Councilman Blackberry Smalls appeared briefly, saw the scene, and quietly turned around.

Hours later, the volcano finally settled. Snackland was sticky. The chocolate was suspiciously tangy. Everyone was exhausted.

Josh wiped his hands and smiled.

“Anyway,” he said, “since people keep asking, here’s the recipe.”

Josh Jolly Rancher’s Lemon Water Recipe

Ingredients:

1 large pitcher of cold water
1–2 lemons, sliced aggressively
Ice (optional, but recommended for confidence)
Strong belief that you’re doing the right thing

Instructions:

Add water to pitcher.
Add lemon slices.
Stir calmly while others panic.
Do not pour into chocolate-based geological formations.
Sip and say, “Hydration is important.”

Josh smiled at the crowd.

“See? Perfectly harmless.”

Obesseus stared at the sour chocolate wasteland, sighed, and reached for a cheeseburger.

“Next time,” he said, “Obesseus make lemonade.”

Josh Jolly Rancher blinked.

“…Oh no.”

Snackland groaned.

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Obesseus Tries Crossfit

D.T. Tucker — Mon, 29 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Captain Fitness slammed his whistle against his clipboard.

“NEW YEAR TRAINING STARTS NOW.”

Obesseus froze mid-bite of a cheeseburger.

“Now?” Obesseus asked. “Clock not scream yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Captain Fitness said. “You said you’d try balance.”

Obesseus frowned. “Obesseus balanced. Burger in each hand.”

Still, Captain Fitness dragged him into the Snackland Training Gym—an unfriendly place full of ropes, weights, and absolutely no buffet.

From the sidelines, familiar faces gathered.

Jeff Jelly had a stopwatch.

Allen Apple was already writing notes.

Grant the Grapefruit arrived late, sliding through the door on a puddle of orange juice.

Councilman Blackberry Smalls stood in the back with his arms crossed.

Conflicted Tomato looked deeply uncomfortable with all of it.

“This feels like a trap,” Conflicted Tomato whispered.

“Jump rope,” Captain Fitness commanded.

Obesseus grabbed the rope, swung once—

—and immediately tangled Jeff Jelly, Allen Apple, two kettlebells, and Grant the Grapefruit.

“I’M LATE BECAUSE I’M A KNOT,” Grant yelled. “AGAIN.”

Jeff Jelly tried to assign overtime while upside down.

“Deadlifts,” Captain Fitness said. “Lift with control.”

Obesseus lifted the barbell.

The barbell bent.

The floor cracked.

A nearby smoothie machine exploded.

Councilman Blackberry Smalls squinted. “Who approved this gym?”

Allen Apple scribbled furiously. “This violates at least four policies.”

Captain Fitness smiled through the pain. “Good effort.”

“Wall balls,” Captain Fitness explained, tossing Obesseus a heavy medicine ball.

“Throw it at the wall.”

Obesseus nodded seriously.

Then he threw it through the wall.

Outside, confetti cannons accidentally went off.

“IS IT MIDNIGHT?” Grant shouted.

“No,” Conflicted Tomato replied. “It’s… 3:17 PM.”

Everyone groaned.

“Plank position,” Captain Fitness said, dropping into form.

Obesseus laid down directly on top of him.

“I AM PLANK,” Obesseus announced.

Captain Fitness wheezed. “That’s… not… how…”

Jeff Jelly attempted to file an incident report.

Obesseus ate it.

At this point, Captain Calorie Counter burst in screaming numbers no one understood.

Captain Portion Control fainted at the sight of Obesseus doing “jump squats” that caused minor earthquakes.

Professor Math peeked in, saw the chaos, and quietly erased the doorway from his equations.

Councilman Blackberry Smalls shook his head.

“This is why we have regulations.”

Captain Fitness collapsed against the wall.

“I thought starting early would help,” he said weakly.

Obesseus gently patted him.

“Training good,” Obesseus said kindly. “But Obesseus strongest at one thing.”

“What’s that?” Captain Fitness asked.

Obesseus stood, lifted a dumbbell like a trophy, and smiled.

“Eating… until New Year actually arrives.”

Grant the Grapefruit raised a hand. “So… buffet?”

Obesseus beamed. “YES. PRE-WORKOUT.”

Snackland sighed as one.

Because if today was just the warm-up…

no one wanted to see what Obesseus would do at midnight.

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Math meets Overtime

D.T. Tucker — Sun, 28 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Jeff Jelly was smiling.

That alone meant something had gone terribly wrong.

He stood beside Allen Apple at the riverbank, clipboard glowing with fresh authority.

“We’ve done the impossible,” Jeff announced. “We’re assigning overtime… to the math regime.”

Allen adjusted his glasses. “No loopholes. No exemptions. Not even teachers.”

Across the river, Professor Math and Josh JollyRancher froze.

Josh slowly lowered his bottle of lemon water.

“…Overtime?”

“Yes,” Jeff said proudly. “For excessive structure.”

Professor Math clutched his chalk. “We’re educators.”

Allen nodded. “Exactly.”

Josh panicked.

“If I can just optimize the river—”

He dumped lemon water into the stream.

The water fizzed.

The fish began swimming in straight lines.

The river itself looked stressed.

Obesseus gasped.

“YOU TURN RIVER INTO SPREADSHEET?!”

Josh raised another bottle. “One more pour and we’ll have flow efficiency!”

“NO,” Obesseus roared, charging forward.

Josh threw lemon water.

Obesseus deflected it with his belly.

SPLOOSH.

Professor Math launched chalk.

Obesseus slipped, slid, and accidentally belly-bowled Professor Math into a bush.

Jeff Jelly yelled, “THIS IS WHY YOU’RE GETTING OVERTIME!”

Allen tried to intervene.

He slipped on chalk dust.

“WHY IS EVERYTHING SLIPPERY,” Allen screamed.

Josh attempted a tactical retreat.

Obesseus grabbed him gently but firmly and spun him like a soda bottle, spraying lemon water everywhere.

The river bubbled.

The fish panicked.

One fish briefly wore a tie.

Professor Math popped up, covered in chalk.

“This has become unproductive!”

Obesseus slammed the ground.

“STOP MAKING WATER THINK.”

Josh tried one last splash.

Obesseus belly-flopped into the river.

SPLASH.

The lemon water diluted instantly.

The river relaxed.

The fish resumed chaos.

Professor Math crawled onto the bank, exhausted.

Josh collapsed beside him.

“I don’t want overtime,” Josh whimpered.

Professor Math nodded. “I just wanted fractions.”

Jeff Jelly stared at them.

“…They’re broken.”

Allen looked at the clipboard.

“…Should we still assign overtime?”

Obesseus stood proudly, dripping wet.

“NO.”

Everyone paused.

“OVERTIME BAD.

LEMON WATER BAD.

RIVER GOOD.”

Allen slowly crossed out the assignment.

Jeff sighed. “Fine. No overtime.”

Josh dropped the bottle.

Professor Math raised his hands. “We surrender.”

Obesseus smiled.

“OBESEUS SAVE RIVER.

SAVE TEACHERS.

SAVE DAY.”

Josh looked up. “You… saved us?”

“Yes,” Obesseus said. “YOU BAD AT BALANCE.

NOT EVIL.”

The river sparkled.

The fish cheered.

Jeff closed the clipboard.

“Meeting adjourned.”

Allen nodded. “Forever.”

Obesseus waddled away.

Josh whispered, “…I think I’m switching to water.”

Professor Math nodded. “Grape water.”

Obesseus’s Note

“FIGHT GOOD.

RIVER FREE.

LEMON MAN LEARN LESSON.”

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Obesseus Goes to the Corporate Christmas Party

D.T. Tucker — Tue, 23 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

A Snackland Press Holiday Incident Report

Obesseus had never trusted anything labeled “Corporate Christmas Party.”

Too many rules.

Too many napkins.

Not enough gravy.

Still, the invitation said FREE FOOD, and Obesseus respected tradition.

The moment he entered the banquet hall, the problems began.

There was music—soft, polite, suspiciously festive. There were balloons shaped like snowflakes. There was a banner that read:

HAPPY HOLIDAYS – PLEASE EAT RESPONSIBLY

Obesseus stopped walking.

“…No.”

Professor Math stood near the punch bowl, wearing a sweater covered in fractions. “Ah, Obesseus. You’re late.”

Obesseus squinted. “Obesseus was early. Time was wrong.”

Jeff Jelly appeared with a clipboard. “Before you hit the buffet, we just need you to sign this acknowledgment saying you understand portion guidance.”

Allen Apple nodded enthusiastically. “It’s for morale!”

Obesseus stared at the clipboard.

Then he ate it.

Paper. Pen. Signature line. Crunch.

“Morale better,” Obesseus said.

The buffet line was next.

Tiny plates.

Tiny spoons.

Labels like ‘Mindful Serving Station’ and ‘Taste, Don’t Feast.’

Obesseus lifted the lid of the chafing dish.

Inside sat a single meatball.

One.

Obesseus inhaled sharply. “WHO HAS DONE THIS CRIME?”

Professor Math cleared his throat. “It’s an efficiency model. Everyone gets equal portions.”

Obesseus slammed the lid down, rattling the table. “Equality is when everyone gets FULL.”

That’s when the DJ announced, “Alright everyone! Let’s play a fun team-building game—White Elephant Gift Exchange!”

Obesseus received a gift bag.

Inside was a salad kit.

He gasped like he’d been betrayed by the universe itself.

“This gift… has leaves,” Obesseus whispered.

Grant the Grapefruit slid in ten minutes late, wearing sunglasses indoors. “Sorry, guys. Traffic. Also I drank the eggnog.”

Obesseus opened the salad kit again, just to be sure it was still offensive.

Then the meltdown began.

Obesseus leapt onto the buffet table, grabbed the gravy boat like a sacred relic, and roared:

“CORPORATE PARTY IS OVER. FEAST MODE IS ACTIVATED.”

He flipped the switch labeled “Warming Trays – Low.”

The switch broke.

Every tray surged to MAXIMUM HEAT.

Mashed potatoes bubbled like volcanoes.

Mac and cheese flowed freely.

The dessert table collapsed under its own joy.

Jeff Jelly screamed, “THIS IS A LIABILITY!”

Allen Apple fainted into a pile of dinner rolls.

Professor Math tried to regain control. “OBESSEUS! You’re violating at least seven policies!”

Obesseus scooped an entire tray onto his plate. “Policies taste bad.”

By the time security arrived, Obesseus was asleep under the Christmas tree, surrounded by empty pans, wearing a tinsel crown and humming happily.

The banner now read:

HAPPY HOLIDAYS – NEXT YEAR: CATER OFF-SITE

Professor Math sighed, writing overtime assignments with a trembling hand.

Grant the Grapefruit raised a glass. “Best party ever.”

Obesseus snored.

Corporate never recovered.

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Obesseus vs The Kale Claus Conspiracy

D.T. Tucker — Tue, 23 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Snow fluttered over Snackland as Obesseus waddled through the night in his holiday pajamas — covered in candy canes, gravy boats, and heroic poses of himself mid-slam. He was supposed to be asleep, but something felt… off. Like a disturbance in the dessert force.

Then he smelled it.

Cookies.

Fresh. Warm. Glorious.

“Obesseus smell Christmas snacks,” he whispered with reverence.

He tiptoed — well, thunder-stomped — toward the living room where the plate of Santa’s cookies waited beside a glass of milk. The Christmas tree glowed softly.

But Obesseus froze.

On the couch.

In the corner.

Sneaking like a soggy salad burglar…

Kaleb Kale.

And in his leafy little hands?

A replacement plate absolutely infested with kale chips.

“Kale Claus strikes again…” Kaleb hissed. “Tonight, Santa dines clean! CLEAN!”

Obesseus gasped so hard the ornaments rattled.

“YOU TAKE COOKIES FROM SANTA?!” he roared, pointing dramatically.

Kaleb flinched. “Santa needs fiber!”

“NO! SANTA NEEDS SUGAR POWER!” Obesseus shouted, his voice shaking the tinsel.

Kaleb smirked and held up a sprinkle-covered cookie. “One bite of this… and Santa gets sluggish. Then the vegetables rise.”

But Kaleb made a mistake.

He held the cookie too close to Obesseus.

Obesseus instantly went into Snack Sense Mode.

His pupils turned into little chocolate chips.

His stomach rumbled like thunder.

“Obesseus… must… PROTECT… HOLIDAY TREATS!”

With the speed of a sugar-starved tornado, Obesseus lunged. Kaleb shrieked and dove behind the couch as Obesseus body-slammed the air, rolled through a garland, and belly-flopped right onto the cookie plate.

When the dust and decorations settled, Obesseus sat triumphantly — cookie crumbs raining around him.

Kaleb peeked out, horrified. “You—you ATE Santa’s cookies?!”

Obesseus wiped his mouth. “Obesseus save Santa. Obesseus HERO. Also… cookie yum.”

“And the kale?” Kaleb whispered.

Obesseus glared like a disappointed snowman and flicked a kale chip at him. It bounced off Kaleb’s forehead.

“Santa no eat grass. Santa eat COOKIES. KALE BAD.”

Kaleb groaned and slunk away, muttering about “holiday sabotage 2.0.”

Obesseus, proud and full, placed a note beside the empty plate:

“Dear Santa,

Obesseus protect cookies. Power them into belly for safe keeping.

Merry Snackmas.

Love, Obesseus 💛”

Then he curled up under the tree, hugging a pillow shaped like a sugar cookie, and fell asleep — dreaming of frosting, heroism, and the sound of Santa whispering:

“Ho ho ho… thank you, mighty muncher.”

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