Ritz in the Tits: A Mallory & Helen Saga

Mallory and Helen had never intended to make a sport out of snacking, but somehow, Ritz crackers had turned into the Olympic event of middle-aged chaos.

They were sitting cross-legged on Mallory’s couch, sharing a sleeve of Ritz like it was fine charcuterie. Except there was no cheese, no meat, just buttery, salty wheels of cardboard joy that crumbled if you looked at them wrong.

“Why do Ritz disintegrate at the speed of light?” Helen asked, brushing her shirt. Except she wasn’t brushing her shirt, she was brushing her cleavage. Because once again, half a cracker had dived straight into her bra like it was a bunker.

Mallory snorted, crumbs already glittering her chest like snack-based confetti. “Honestly, I think Ritz are engineered by Big Laundry. They make you eat them and then spend three hours shaking out your bra in the bathroom like a maraca.”

Helen leaned back and cackled. “I swear, I’m going to die one day and when they do the autopsy, they’ll find Ritz dust in my lung tissue.”

Mallory popped another cracker into her mouth, which immediately cracked into a thousand flakes and disappeared, half in her bra, half down the couch cushions. She looked at Helen with wide, horrified eyes. “It happened again. I’m a walking crumb silo.”

They both doubled over laughing so hard Mallory accidentally wheezed a Ritz crumb straight into her nose. “OH MY GOD,” she shouted, choking and flapping her arms. “I’ve gone full dairy cow feeder—Ritz just dispense themselves into every body cavity!”

Helen, crying from laughter, tried to help by slapping her back, but that just made Mallory spit out a spray of buttery shards. The floor looked like the aftermath of a cheese cracker tornado.

And yet—they kept eating.

“Okay,” Helen gasped, clutching her chest where at least three crackers had gone to die. “This isn’t snacking anymore. This is a lifestyle. We should just keep Ritz tucked in our bras like a purse snack.”

“Yeah,” Mallory said between giggles, “until you lean forward and a cracker slides out mid-meeting like a calling card. ‘Oh sorry, that’s my Ritz tit.’”

They collapsed again, wheezing, surrounded by crumbs, realizing they weren’t women anymore. They were just human Ritz dispensers—two buttery gods of chaos, leaving a trail of cracker dust wherever they went.