Posted on June 4, 2024

Local Man Accidentally Joins Cult – Stays for Snacks

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Elkhart, IN — What started as a casual invitation to a “community gathering” ended with local man Ricky Malone unknowingly joining a fringe cult. He’s still unsure if he’s officially a full member, but he keeps showing up—mostly for the snacks.

“It was a Thursday. They said there’d be cookies,” Ricky recalled. “Next thing I know, we’re chanting about ‘The Great Crunch’ and wearing matching robes. The cookies were oatmeal raisin, so I was halfway out the door… but then they brought out nachos.”

The group behind the gathering, known formally as The Order of Eternal Snacking, has operated quietly in Elkhart for the past two years. Meeting weekly in what used to be a Quiznos, the group has gone largely unnoticed—possibly due to their beige robes and a deep commitment to silence outside of designated chew time.

According to local records, the Order was formed in 2022 by a man named Brother Dave, a former vending machine repairman who claims to have received a spiritual vision during a Doritos mishap at a rest stop off I-80. “The bag burst open and the chips formed a perfect circle,” he reportedly told new initiates. “That was the sign. The circle of snack. The loop of crunch.”

Members of the group follow a loose spiritual doctrine centered around something called “The Crunchening,” which appears to be a symbolic metaphor for both personal transformation and achieving the perfect bite-to-saturation ratio. Rituals include ceremonial snacking, rhythmic humming, polite clapping, and light cardio “to make room for more treats.”

Witnesses say Ricky appeared confused during the group’s initiation chant, which involves repeating phrases like “Salt is clarity” and “He who dips, ascends.” Still, he nodded politely and clapped when others clapped. “He blended in surprisingly well,” said Brother Dave. “He even brought his own chips the second time. That’s when we knew he was serious.”

Ricky maintains that he’s not a true believer. “I’m not drinking any Kool-Aid. Unless it’s cherry. And cold. And paired with cheese cubes.” But he has now attended four straight meetings and helped set up folding chairs at the last two.

He also admits to participating in something called the “Crunchfession,” a semi-serious ceremony where members confess to snack-related guilt. “I told them I once ate an entire box of Cheez-Its that wasn’t mine. Everyone nodded like they understood. Then they passed me a bowl of trail mix and said, ‘You are forgiven. Also, we have root beer tonight.’ I’m not gonna lie. It felt good.”

Despite the bizarre theology and admittedly odd customs, many members insist the group is more support network than cult. “We’re just people who believe that snacks bring us closer to peace,” said one member who goes by the name Sister Salsa. “Other churches have wafers. We have loaded nachos.”

When asked what exactly the group believes in, members struggled to offer a clear answer. Some cited “the pursuit of eternal crunch.” Others mentioned “balancing soft and crispy energies.” A few simply shrugged and offered pretzels.

Ricky’s friends say they’ve noticed subtle changes. “He started showing up to hangouts with weird phrases,” said one friend. “He told us we were ‘letting the guac of truth spoil.’ I didn’t know if that was metaphorical or if he had actual guacamole we were supposed to eat.”

He’s also begun organizing his pantry by flavor profile and has a new appreciation for food texture. “Before, he just ate chips. Now he talks about mouthfeel and ‘spiritual crispiness.’ I think he’s in deeper than he realizes.”

Still, Ricky insists he’s just there for the free food. “Look, I’ve been to worse things for less. This one has bean dip and everyone’s weirdly respectful. No one pressures you. You can chant or not chant. They let you pick your own hummus. It’s honestly more chill than my old bowling league.”

The Order’s leader, Brother Dave, says Ricky is a welcome presence, whether he believes or not. “The path to Crunchenment is different for everyone,” he explained. “Some are drawn by truth. Some by hunger. Either way, we pass the chips with open hands.”

City officials say the group is not currently violating any ordinances, though there has been mild confusion over zoning laws. The former Quiznos is registered as a storage facility, and complaints have been made about excessive bean fumes and “suspicious bread chanting” coming from the building. For now, the group remains under informal observation.

According to flyers posted in local laundromats, upcoming events include Popcorn Prophecy Night, Flatbread Friday, and a highly anticipated internal debate over whether Funyuns qualify as sacred or profane. A recent meeting reportedly ended in a heated exchange after someone compared Cool Ranch Doritos to a false prophet.

As of press time, Ricky was seen carrying folding chairs out of the former Quiznos. When asked if he planned to return next week, he paused and scratched his head. “They said it’s taco night. I mean... I’d be rude not to. Plus, I heard there’s going to be a guacamole blessing. Whatever that is.”

He then adjusted his robe, dipped a tortilla chip into a bowl, and muttered, “Crunch be with you,” before disappearing inside.