My Life as a Computer Cockroach Read Online Free PDF

Opera’s driveway. From a distance I couldn’t exactly make out what it was, but I didn’t have to. The sound gave it away:
    Crunch, Crunch, Crunch
Crunch, Crunch, Crunch
Crunch, Crunch, Crunch
    Then, of course, there was the smell. Nothing comes close to the delicately scented aroma of extra crispy, extra extra salty, extra extra extra greasy Chippy Chipper Potato Chips —the chips preferred by heart surgeons around the world (who are looking for more bypass operations to perform).
    When I got close enough to see the details, it was exactly as I feared. There in the middle of the driveway was a giant mound of potato chips. And there, at the top of that mound, happily eating his way down to the bottom, was my ol’ pal Opera.
    â€œOpera!” I shouted. “Opera, what’s going on?”
    Munch, Munch, Munch
Munch, Munch, Munch
Munch, Munch, Munch
    â€œOpera!”
    â€œHe can’t hear you.”
    I spun around to see Wall Street standing in the front doorway.
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked. “What’s all this about?”
    â€œRemember the last thing we typed on Ol’ Betsy about Choco Chum ordering a dump truck load of chips?”
    I felt a huge knot growing in my stomach. “Yeah . . .”
    â€œThere they are.”
    I glanced back at Opera as he sat atop the golden pile of chips, slowly, but surely, eating his way down toward us.
    â€œHow do we get him off there?” I asked.
    â€œGot it covered,” she said. “I just had to find something he liked better than chips.”
    â€œWhat could he love better than chips?” I asked.
    She grinned and produced a giant tub of Greaso (the cooking grease preferred by those same heart surgeons everywhere). Without a word, she grabbed a pile of chips from the mound and shouted, “Hey, Opera!”
    He looked down just long enough to see her dipping the chips into the tub of lard.
    â€œUmm . . . ,” she shouted, pretending to lick her lips. “Yum, yum, yum.”
    He scampered down the mound in a flash as Wall Street held out the grease-dipped chips, urging him to follow her into the house . . . “Come on, boy, attaboy, come on.”
    He trotted obediently behind her. I followed. Once we got inside, she tossed him the chips, and he gobbled them down while she quickly locked the door—making his escape impossible.
    â€œOkay,” she said, turning to me, “we’ve got a problem.”
    â€œNo kidding.”
    â€œOpera,” she asked, “are you sure your parents won’t be home until late?”
    He looked up from his eating and answered, “Burp!”
    â€œGreat, then we’ll make this headquarters.”
    â€œHeadquarters for what?” I asked.
    â€œTurn on Ol’ Betsy, plug her into that kitchen phone line there, and let’s get to work.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I demanded as I set up the computer and plugged in the phone line. “We typed out that Choco Chum would make everything okay with Coach Kilroy, and just the opposite happened.”
    â€œNot exactly,” she said. “Bring the story up on the screen.”
    Reluctantly, I turned on the computer and brought up our last Choco Chum command:
    Choco Chum, clear up all of the confusion about Coach Kilroy.
    â€œSee!” I pointed to the screen. “It’s right there.” Wall Street shook her head. “No.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? It’s right there in front of you.”
    Again she shook her head. “We typed in the command for all of the confusion to be cleared up.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd it has. Ol’ Betsy decided to clear up the confusion by making it one hundred percent clear that Coach Kilroy was guilty.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWe typed in that Choco Chum should clear up the confusion about Coach Kilroy. That’s exactly what happened. There’s no more confusion. Ol’ Betsy cleared it