Stapler Juice

By Niko Krommydas 

My voracious appetite for staplers began on an afternoon where I had forgotten my standard lunch of pimento on seedless rye, a fresh almond-leafed pear and one can of ginger ale. For the past six years, this exact meal had been consumed each afternoon at one thirty, a time when the sun happens to reflect off my office door and corral back toward my desk to form a perfect isosceles triangle. However, on this particular day, a day where bursts of light punched through my window like exploding roman candles, I had no meal of this kind to enjoy.  

As my salivating pupils scanned the office, I was struck by the deliciousness of one particular object. It was solid black in color and overflowing with succulence, and the steaming metal gave off an aroma stronger than the freshest pimento loaf. It was my stapler. I had found my lunch.  

Now, one may wonder how I actually was able to ingest an entire stapler, and I must agree that this feat was somewhat difficult, for I had no condiments to season the office supply. However, upon taking my first mouthful of its various cogs and springs, I quickly realized that the juices pouring from out the stapler were zesty in flavor, and with that, finishing the meal came easy. 

The staples danced like drunken teenagers down my throat and fumbled into my digestive tract, releasing an orgasmic tide of delight that resembled frolicking barefoot across a field of perky, milk-spewing breasts. In an instant, the previous six years had been erased. No longer would a soggy sandwich and piece of fruit provide a satisfying meal. My standard lunch, which would be consumed each afternoon at one thirty, a time when the sun happens to reflect off my office door and corral back toward my desk to form a perfect isosceles triangle, would now be one mouth-watering stapler. 

This practice continued for some time and went unnoticed throughout my office, until the cravings grew too powerful to satisfy with just one stapler. A single helping for lunch became two, and soon after, it doubled again. Miniature staplers were even kept in a cookie jar beneath my desk to be enjoyed between meals. No matter the circumstance, I had to devour all of the metal-based delicacies I came across, for there was no better feeling than the perfect bliss of a stapler’s clamping jaws becoming unhinged in my mouth. 

It wasn’t long before every employee had reported a stapler missing from their office. Throughout all the chaos, I remained silent, as I did not believe the enjoyment of a fine meal to be a crime. However, when my quiet tongue raised suspicions around the office, my boss had no choice but to conduct a rigorous investigation.  

“Have you heard about the missing staplers?” he asked one afternoon. 

“Yes, I have.” 

“Well, what have you heard?” 

“I’ve heard they’ve been reported as missing,” I replied, fidgeting with a paper bag beneath my desk.  

“Any idea what happened to these missing staplers?”  

“Sir,” I began, leaning forward in my chair like I wanted to brush my teeth with his tie. “I have a question for you.” 


I leaned even closer.  

“Have you ever eaten a stapler?” 

His eyes moved to the floor and he began to cough awkwardly, as if trying to dislodge a ball of phlegm from his throat.  

“Well, no. I can’t say I have.” 

So with that, I pulled a tan stapler out of the paper bag and placed it atop the lacquered desk.  

“Go ahead,” I said. “Give it a try.” 

After peering down the hall for any witnesses, my boss grabbed the stapler and peeled back the top half, exposing its chomping metal teeth and private parts. He stared directly into my eyes and proceeded to swallow the elongated piece in one breath. I sat frozen, my pupils captivated by the imprint of the whole stapler traveling down his throat and disappearing into his stomach.  

“Keep them coming!” he shouted. 

It was clear this had not been his first time.


Niko Krommydas lives just below post-graduate purgatory (see: full-time job in a field unrelated to any of his interests) and is currently using the pen to dig his way out. He has no previous publishing experience in the realm of fiction, but writes Kineseology articles for Demand Media, Inc. on occasion. You can contact him by screaming real loud. However, if you’re shy, he also accepts e-mails ( 

Published on March 29, 2008 at 1:35 pm  Leave a Comment  

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