The first 16 hours of Friday would be best expressed as a pupu platter of petty annoyances, balled up like Play-Doh scraps into a particolored amalgamation of pud.
It was either crush a Fat Pants Friday or kill everybody on Earth.
WHAT IS THIS THING? It’s American human food. Regardless of my state of mind, I never lose sight of how wonderful it is to be alive in 2016.
TOP TO BOTTOM: Egg, cheese fondue, bacon bits, beef patty, Texas toast, fried onions, beef patty, more fondue, Texas toast, more cheddar fondue, one more beef patty, two spicy chicken tenders, one slice of American cheese just in case the roof of your mouth wasn’t cheesed up enough, one more piece of Texas toast, asparagus.
DIMENSIONS: If your Burger King was about to explode from pressurization, you could have smashed a window with this and saved lives. True story.
NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION: It’s exactly as healthy as half a Caesar salad. I’ve got numbers to back me up.
ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT: Okay, first, this flea market of bros huddled up right by me at the bar and began going back and forth about what their dads have accomplished and how great their dads were. It sounded vaguely competitive, but not a single one mentioned anything they themselves built. Typical rich kid talk.
When my Fat Pants came and I began snapping pictures, one of these generic legacy kids made a generic little suggestion that would have gone completely unnoticed had he not been speaking to me.
“You should put your beer glass next to it for scale,” he said. I didn’t take the knife out of the sandwich.
“People know,” I just said, without even turning to look at him. That answer was likely the closest thing to a consequence he has ever experienced, that little twerp. Nice hair, too, you fcking …
Let’s just move on.
WHO’S WITH ME? After the bros left, presumably to watch the second round of the Masters while trying to one-up each other in conversation about what golf courses their dads have played at, another couple sat down beside me. The man ordered them a Caesar salad to share. I’m starting to get angry again.
This man wore Levi’s. I could tell because of the label on the back, just above the caboose. That’s a neat feature of Levi’s jeans: the waistline and length you’ve got on are right there for everybody to see, and guess fcking what?
NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION: This man and I, our waistline measurements are the same. Enjoy your half-salad, asshole.
WHAT AM I DRINKING? Furious. I’m so predictable.
ONE HOUR EARLIER: Really?
STRATEGY: I was only going to eat half before Kayla the Bartender told me 1) this was the last Fat Pants of the day; and 2) nobody had been able to finish it so far. Oh.
The first three-fourths of it were swallowed forcibly, in bites hoisted up to my mouth on a fork-shaped shovel. At that juncture, I second-guessed myself and briefly pondered a box … then a chicken tender fell out, so I ate that, then a couple onion straws fell out, so I ate everything.
NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION: Mr. Half-Salad’s companion leaned over him and told me how impressed she was with my conquest. My waistline twinsy had nothing to say.