"If you ask me," said Clark, showers of Thin Mints crumbs exiting his mouth as he spoke, "I think somebody wants us to have them for some ulterior purpose."
"Like what?" retorted Michael through a beard full of Samoa chunks.
"Like for example, say if you're in the cookie business and you don't want the competition from the Girl Scouts every year, and you somehow devise a plan to send ALL the Girl Scout cookies in America to one individual!"
"...or individual organisation!" I yelled. "These cookies weren't ordered by us, but they showed up at our gaff. The Girl Scouts didn't know it wasn't us who ordered them, and since we took them anyway, they're probably none the wiser!"
"But who is so desperate to sell their own baked treats that they would try to remove all of a competitor's cookies from the marketplace? Who would concoct so devious a plan?" inquired Michael.
Just then, the mail plopped onto the mat (remember, this was back in the day, and we hadn't got ourselves a mailboy just yet). Clark picked up the pile and there, on top, was this note:
Well, now. If things up until this point had been a bit weird, then this note had made sure things were downright freaky. Who was this Turgider fellow? And if he made cookies, how come we'd never heard of him?
More of this story on Friday.