I want to eat all food. I want poutine but with the crunchy bits fished out of deep fryer topped with whatever you can siphon from the grease trap. I want to feel sick to the point where you feel sick. I want to unhinge my jaw and put my foot in my mouth and I want to call that an appetizer. I want to know what is the difference between a Blizzard and a McFlurry. I want butter au gratin.
I want to deconstruct a chocolate cake and then eat those separated pieces, just shoveling flour and egg and shortening down my throat. I want one Quesarito, no, make that two with a Baha Blast slushy atop an extra soggy Mexican Pizza. I want gravy on top of gravy until my mashed potatoes look as murky as a Lake Erie beach. I want a wormhole that links my stomach back to my mouth, but I will settle for a back alley surgery involving my large intestines and a staple gun.
I want Thanksgiving with no one talking to me or even looking in my direction, just hook an IV of creamed corn to my veins with a cranberry dressing feeding tube and leave me be. I want a waterbed of ramen and giant bean bags of ravioli. I want vitamin X milk. I want to leave a trail of line cooks in my wake. What the Spanish influenza did to the 1918 population, I want that but with cheeseburgers. I want a coarse black pubic hair in my meatball sub if it means I get another.
I want to go Hannibal Lecter on the Burger King. I want the entire state of Indiana renamed to Buffet Buffet where I can cruise around endless streets of Golden Corrals, Home Town Buffets, and steamed Chinese foods. I want to scrape the Teflon from a skillet and smoke the residue. I want to be the third biggest compost in the Pacific Northwest. I want to do to a rotisserie chicken what steam engines do to coal reserves. I want my blood to be replaced with tarter sauce but I still want my blood in a doggie bag. I want a fine musk emitting from my pores like a ferret, but I want mine to be called toilette eau de White Castle. And I want this now and I want twice as much for dinner.
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
Grimy horror growler Rob Zombie's scariest music videos finally ranked to warn your children.
1998: I upload dave.pcx, and change the course of history
Set goals for yourself, and fulfill them. Absurd! Only in video games!
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