The Double Diner Special Ain’t Got Shiz On Me. [Crapped Pants and Syrup.]
My name is Ian Drinkwater. I am not a remarkable human being. The older I get, the more I accept this. However, being unremarkable, I often think of ways to temporarily boost my self-esteem. A couple of weeks ago, I decided that I needed to complete a Test of Strength (Fat Ass Consumption.)
Being a calorie junkie bent on obesity, combated only by trips to the gym, I decided that I could eat two diner specials from a local joint my band of pederasts, perverts, and horrified girlfriends occasionally visit. What exactly is a diner special? I’m glad you asked. Here’s a video of Pederast Extreme, coder and funder of Omega Level, Senor Poppycock Gravel Dick explaining it. (Sorry dude, this video is going up.)
I decided the only way to justify my continued existence was to eat two of these. The idea was borne from a trip to the diner a couple of weeks ago, when I cleaned up one special, and proceeded to eat half of Poppycock’s. It seemed easy.
It was not.
This is the loot. It was initially four plates, but I had a genius idea. I ordered pancakes and french toast – it was agreed upon that double pancakes wasn’t necessary to achieve fat fuck status. My first move? I threw the french toast on top of the pancakes. Consolidated that shit. Immediately, I was down to three plates. It was an emotional advantage.
The pancakes and french toast were crushed immediately. I needed to get them over with. They frightened me, and little did I know that they would prove the easiest. Perhaps by order of consumption. Nothing son, nothing at all. After that, I began to eat my first plate – toast out the ass, bacon, scrambled eggs, and home fries. It was officially on.
The first plate was pretty easy. It’s like being a reliever and being called into pitch an entire game. The first few innings, you’re like, this okay. No problem. I wasted the toast first. It offended me. Then the bacon. Bacon goes down my throat like hogs; they’re naturally inclined to slide. It’s like I was built for it. Then the eggs. Nothing challenging at all.
Then it hit me.
The emotional aspect. My corner had warned me not to think about it. But I was fucking thinking man. Thinking a lot. I tried to gain another emotional advantage. I decided to leave the first home fries out of the first plate cleaning. They would be easy. Man, I was wrong, so fucking wrong.
I trudged onward.
As I worked on the second plate, sadness overwhelmed me. What exactly was I doing here? I’m a goddamn retard. I was certain of it. Then I began to panic.
I looked Poppycock in the eyes, and I asked a simple question: Do you think I could die from this? Ever since I saw fucking Se7en, the gluttony kill has haunted me. I have known in the back of my mind that I was a bad day away from dying like that. I was reassured that I could not die. I continued eating, but as my stomach filled, it began pushing on my bladder.
When I ordered the double-diner special like a true asshole, the waitress was so fucking impressed (or mortified) she offered me free refills. I’m Caffeine Powered. I obliged by drinking myself silly. I had to piss. My friends assured me that it wasn’t cheating, so I headed to the bathroom.
What I found wasn’t reassuring.
I had feared mud butt for a while. I had been shitting all night since I ate dinner at a mexican joint, and shitting had become a raw ass war of attrition. Quesadillas. Goddamn them. As I pissed, I glanced down at my boxers. Shit stain status had been achieved. Son of a bitch. Now I’m bloated, tired (it’s 2:30 am), and I am going back to sit in my own fudge. Condemn this challenge!
I went back to the booth and informed them of my findings. “I have skid marks.”
Everyone laughed (at me) and my brother (Rendar) proclaimed laughingly “Oh my god!”
I smiled and responded “I’m not any happier about this than you.”
Onward! All that was left was some eggs from the second plate. And the homefries. The fucking homefries.
Sensing the end, I pressed through the eggs. I was rallying not from a zeal in my stomach, but the emotional buoyancy that comes from seeing an end in sight.
I was approaching heartbreak hill.
I was worried because usually potatoes are my favorite food group. They were daunting, dry pieces of shit. My brother exclaimed, “Do you know how much this fucking kid loves homefries?” Not tonight, brother. Not tonight. I picked them off one by one. Shit pants be damned. Full stomach be damned. These pieces of shit were all that were standing between me and something truly pathetic to champion as a justification for me using up materials of the universe.
Onwards! Upwards! Shazam.
I was close. Really close. One left.
Boom! Headshot. It was now early in the morning, and I had consumed roughly a thousand calories. My corner men were ecstatic. I was too. I had crushed my opponent. Fuck you poultry and diary items! (Are eggs poultry?) Poppycock posed the question, “What’s next for you?”
I didn’t know at the time.
I went home and promptly shut it down. I went to sleep and awoke around noon, feeling completely healed. My remarkable digestive track, aided by lethal amounts of caffeine had worked out all the food. I was ready to party. But then the stomach ache hit me. Around 12:30, I was convinced the death I feared had caught up to me. I bent over in my car, and wished and hoped someone would tell my story when I was gone.
Somehow, it passed.
I suddenly felt like I had made it through the other side. It wasn’t the first time I had dodged Death’s scythe. Perhaps I am getting good at this.
It’s now clear what my next goal will be. Two one-pound hamburgers. I will need to train. Work up to it. But it can be done. Anything can be done. I am living proof.
Shit stains and all.