*Taken by Ray… who I hate.
Dear Jon Mendoza, please get a gun and shoot me, because it has happened.
Today I went to the luxurious eatery, Burger King. I ordered a simple meal. “What you eat today?” said the tiny Asian lady behind the register. She was old, but looked saucy in the sweet BK uniform. I’ve always had a thing for a lady in uniform. “Well, I’d like 2 double BK stackers (that’s the burger with meat, cheese, meat, cheese, special sauce, and bacon), make one of those a large meal, with a Dr. Pepper no ice, and let’s go ahead and add 8 chicken tenders. Could I get 3 things of BBQ?” She smiled, “It’s 0.20 cents extra. Okay?” Hell yeah, okay. I plumped down in the oddly comfortable BK booths. Smiled at The King, and ate. Children walked by in awe of the feat I was accomplishing. The great thing about BK is that it is just 3 blocks from The Chronicle. Not at all a long walk. It’s enough of a walk to smoke 1 cigarette, and see a few skillets shopping at the upscale Westfield Shopping Center. Upon returning to my humble little cube, I sat down and realized 2 things. 1. I really need to take a steamer. and 2. I was still hungry. “How in the Hell?” I thought to myself. I scrounged up a dollar from Christian’s desk while he was bashing his head in from a recent sale that went drastically wrong. I went to the vending machine and put his dollar in, (I hope he doesn’t need it for the bus) and selected a delicious Snickers bar. But, wait! What’s this? It’s my lucky day. 2 delicious Snickers bars came out of the vending machine. It took approximately 6 minutes to eat the 2 Snickers bar. I have failed to mention that much like the meal I had just eaten, they, too, were King Sized. Maybe it’s because I am from Texas, or maybe it’s because I am compensating for something, but I must get King Size.
I started working again, and by working I mean reading up on the Cowboys and Mavericks myspace groups. I looked down and I noticed something growing. Pulsating, even. Yes, it was… my belly. What has become of me? I couldn’t help but wonder what the monstrosity that sat so plumply between my chest and hips was and how it got there. Have I become complacent? Has it become so routine for me to sex the ladies I had to give myself a handicap? Am I giving everyone else a chance to catch-up? I don’t think that’s it. Have I just become so out of shape that the only exercise I get is in the bedroom?
My daily routine is not out of the ordinary. Let’s see. Smoke a pack a day. Drink a sixer at night. My diet consists of, but is not limited to, BK, McDonalds, North Beach Pizza, Red Door Cafe, all the Mexican food I can handle, pies, and Dr. Pepper. Where’s the shame in that? No where. I mean, I walk to Subway every now and again. Yes, maybe I have begun to roll around in my own filth a little too much as of late, but I’m not a sloppy guy. Or am I? Is this like the fall of Caesar? Sure as hell seems like it. So, what do I do? Do I join a gym? Go running? Crunches? How do I get rid of this and start my life over?
Let’s be real here for a moment. Ladies love a man with a belly. It said so in Cosmo. Maybe I should bask in the greatness of my belly. In Italy being tubs is a symbol of wealth. I could embrace my wealth, and start eating off my belly. Yes! That’s it. Embrace the wealth!
Or, maybe I’ll do a couple of crunches, and up the sex to 4 times a week? Sound good?
Ciao.
