Lunchables

Wharton Grad has solution to Bay Area housing crisis

The delicate scent of baked hipster drifted down the length of the wharf. Steve Smith's stomach grumbled and then whispered "Steve Smith. To the docks, Steve Smith." Nerve pathways carved out by a lifetime of pain fired. The enormous beast dropped the seal he was rapeating and began to lumber toward the deliciousness.

A flock of overweight nude humans fluttered past him on bicycles, their buttocks raised in their seats like a tender offering as they tried to get away. Their screams made his swollen testicles ache. The seal blood dried on his penis and mouth as he gathered speed. Baked hipster was near. That rarest treat.

The smell overwhelmed Steve Smith, but all he could see were steel boxes. Steve Smith hated the steel of men. He could rarely get at the sweet meat within in it. Steve Smith sniffed at the seams of one of the boxes. He knew baked hipster was inside. He roared and beat the box with his mighty wood ape fists, using all his wood ape strength.

"STEVE SMITH WANT HIPSTER MEAT!" Steve Smith roared.