Tackling Oblivion's Fatass
Food challenge wannabe tackles a taproom's biggest burger
Published: October 10, 2012
I can't tell if my friends are proud, disgusted or both, but they clap. I tamed the Fatass. I wasn't this proud on my college graduation day. Our waitress walks over, presumably to tell me to shut the hell up.
Me: ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?
Waitress: Holy shit ...
Me: You can take that platter now.
It's 10 minutes post-Fatass, and I am not entertained. My stomach is slowly churning, my breathing's hastened and now the buzz of my beer is kicking in.
Me: Seriously, it's starting to pick up down there.
Kayle: Dude, you're thinking about it too much. Just finish your beer so we can head downtown.
Me: Wait, downtown?
A-Rod: Yeah, I told you that's where we're going, remember?
Me: There's no way I can drink anymore, guys – that whiskey would light me up now after this shit.
A-Rod: Don't worry, I've got some Smirnoff Ices you can chug in the truck, instead.
It's official. The Fatass has plugged me into another plane of existence. It's like being extremely drunk – everything looks fuzzy and flung down a long hallway – with all the perks of food magma sloshing around inside you, but wihtout the hopes of getting laid.
Walking through the restaurant is a Cirque Du Soleil of shame, tripping and stumbling as we walk out the door. We get in A-Rod's truck. I immediately face a pincer attack of drowsiness and nausea, during which I contemplate the fact that I bartered my self-respect for a novelty-sized cheeseburger. A-Rod hands me a Green Apple Smirnoff Ice, a smug grin on his face.
A-Rod: Drink up.
Me: I hate you so much right now ...
What did you do last night? Send us a diary detailing your drunken escapades, and we'll print the best ones in an upcoming issue of OW. Send your story, along with your name, age, phone number and email address to firstname.lastname@example.org. We won't print your name or contact info, but we do need it to contact you to make sure you're a real person and can verify your story.