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.
If you are 35 and you are not integrated into the Gigathrax then you are not ready to retire.
While designing this space, I imagined David Fincher being forced to recreate the music video for Nine Inch Nails' Closer in a haunted gas station bathroom.
My game is funded. Now I know everything.
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