The other night I ordered a large pepperoni pizza. It was way past the average person’s weekday bedtime and definitely past the hour dietitians recommend eating anything. I was starving and wanted to eat that huge greasy pizza all alone while watching and crying to the Fellowship of the Ring. I had a Fat Kid pizza fantasy that I would eat that pizza so fast all the blood would rush to my head and I would pass out right on the couch. I wasn’t really ashamed until the delivery boy showed up at my door and I found myself pretending there were people in the kitchen there to help me consume this huge artery lubricating delight.
“Ha oh Pizza boy you didn’t seriously think I would or even could eat this whole pizza by myself?!” “Billy! Johnny! Fat Pete! Come on! Get out here and help me eat this pizza.” “They must be downstairs or in the backyard making pipe bombs.”
I’m on the swift path to corpulence, the Great and Final Plague of America. We’re feeding ourselves to death like those poor little ducks that make delicious foie gras. I bet my liver tastes yummy and would go well with Walnut Fig Brioche.
Thats me and Fat Pete.
