If it doesn’t crunch or crinkle, he won’t eat it.
How to identify: He dines on only the most pungent, debris-yielding, noisily packaged foodstuffs … at all times. His bunk is no more a sleeping quarters than an ogre’s lair of gnashed pork byproducts and discarded nut husks.
Reason to hate: Once the crumbs fall from his beard and bounce off his shirt, they inevitably land on the floor, inviting exotic foreign insects to crawl under your skin at night.
Redeeming quality: After misinterpreting your death stare for interest, he offers you a yogurt granola bar.
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