Fat Pants Friday: Shot on an iPhone 7



I don’t care about the other bells and whistles: if my new cell phone can’t properly capture a four-pound Mega-Philly, it might as well be a 1990s drug dealer pager.

Fat Pants Friday, meet my new iPhone. Better yet, iPhone, meet Fat Pants Friday.



WHAT’S IN THIS? Enough roast beef to stuff a sock with and knock out an inmate; approximately one onion, caramelized; according to 6Smith’s Facebook post, “a wretched excess of gooey, melty Swiss cheese”; the usual suspects (bacon jam, French fries, fini cheddar fondue); sliced jalapenos, and chipotle aioli. Phillies generally aren’t made to by spicy but screw the rules. And asparagus.

NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION: I woke up Friday morning, ate this, drank one beer, and woke up Saturday morning a pound and a half lighter. Sure, I’d assume at least 200 calories were packed in here; but does it matter if eating it counts as a workout?

ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT: Everyone wanted to know what this was, and I mean everyone. At least six people stopped by to ask, and two sweet young ladies took up seats next to be in a state of permanent enchantment. They said I was cute, but they were really just trying to get to the Philly.

You’re not technically supposed to share, but I couldn’t tell them no. Besides …


INTERLUDE: Last week, I changed a part of my life that had been constant for the last 13 years-plus and said good-bye to Sprint. I’d been with them ever since I first had a cell phone. After three or four “I wanna throw my phone out the window” moments, I finally took action.

By that I mean, I went on a Twitter rant. Again.

If you think Twitter rants accomplish nothing, hear this: Verizon responded to me after this one. VZ asked for permission to slide into my DMs, then a sales manager named Rosie promotion-ed me over the fence. Now, I pay less for more flexible data and a new iPhone 7.

I’d been getting fed up with Androids, too.

It’s only been five days, but the early returns are that I’m infinitely happier with Verapple than I was with Sprindroid. Moral of the story: if you’re not happy with your carrier, don’t be afraid to risk manageable unhappiness to pursue happiness.

This sandwich.


First picture I ever took with it. Look at how that thing captures onions!

WHO’S WITH ME? Their names were Linda and Jill. Very nice young ladies. Linda addressed me, always, by putting her hand on my arm and gently squeezing. Lucky her: I’ve been lifting.

WHAT AM I DRINKIN’? A Summit – excuse me, a motherfucking GABF Gold Medal-Winning Summit Extra Pale Ale. #RWTW

STRATEGY: Linda’s strategy was to hint at her willingness to use my fork to bite into my sandwich, but I insisted that 6Smith had more than one fork in the restaurant. Jill’s strategy was to just steal two from an empty table.

It’s not like I was going to get this off the plate without dumping it into my lap, so I just stabbed my fork into the pile and ate what came out with it. The ladies kept trying to take dainty bites, but I took Linda’s and really dug in. The ensuing bite nearly dislocated her jaw. She ate it, though.

In the end, the ladies had one or two bites apiece before asking for their own and having their hearts broken (they’d saved this one for me but were otherwise out). Instead, Zach the Bartender and I whipped up a MacGuyver Fat Pants using the stoner fries juiced up with the cheese sauce and bacon bits they put on their Happy Hour mac.

Our corner of the table had so much happiness, we were basically glowing under the bar lights. It might have been meat sweat. The end.

STILL GOT TIME? You can find my Great American Beer Festival coverage right here, or my initial write-up of 6Smith.


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