It doesn't make a lick of sense. Not even a little bit. Not even to me or any of my siblings but that doesn't keep it from being irrationally hilarious.
We were little kids, I can't even remember how old we were. I remember specific details but not much of a narrative of what exactly happened. I remember that it was the summer time because I was wearing a pair of hot-pink bike shorts (stop--just stop trying to visualize the sexy). All four of us were standing in the kitchen and looking at the grocery list that mom had written. I remember our black, shiny stove top. I remember that the kitchen was unusually clean. I remember that Mom was on the phone and we were getting bored waiting for her to take us into town. Why is it that grown-up phone calls take for-ev-er?
We decided that since moms almost always forget their shopping lists, we were going to memorize it. We employed a mnemonic device that would lump two or three things together to make one imaginary grocery list item. Because memorizing one made-up thing is easier than remembering two or three real things? That was the plan.
Let's pretend that this was mom's shopping list:CerealYogurtMilkBaking sodaChicken nuggetsChipsBreadTortillasCognacToilet PaperApples
So using our fancy, callow brains we came up with stuff like, "Apple Cereal Bread" or "Toilet Paper Cognac" (by the way, my mom would probably appreciate it if I included that she never put cognac on our shopping lists. She was strictly vodka and Pepsi). Anyway, at some point someone decided to turn some nouns into adjectives at which point (and I really wish I could remember who said it), Milky Bread Chips was mentioned.
And the thought was so horrible, the visual so appalling, the idea of the texture so vomit inducing that the game was immediately and unanimously cancelled so that everyone could privately display how horrific the idea of Milky Bread Chips truly was. That was one of the first times in my life that I remember feeling a true and sincere camaraderie with my siblings. We were all so commonly bound and in tune with one another. Our sounds of revulsion quickly turned into laughter so hearty that we didn't have legs to stand. We fell to the floor, tears streamed down our face and for weeks "Milky Bread Chips" would trigger the very same response.
We were defenseless against it. My mom walked into the room and, for the life of her, did not find anything even remotely funny about what was going on. She probably didn't mind, though, because for once we were all together and not at war over one thing or another.
Even into adulthood, the idea makes me laugh so hard that I weep.
Today my brother, nearly thirty years old, posted this on my Facebook wall.
UPDATE: It was kind of like this, but with laughter. Mostly.