Beware! False advertising! You can NOT eat this seat!
Let’s kick this off with a fun fact about the Donner Party, that famous group of settlers who became stranded in the Sierra Nevadas in 1844 and resorted to cannibalism . . .
The thing is, they didn’t have to. When they finally came down from the mountains, they still had livestock. Live livestock. A guide had even been sent to find them and lead them out weeks earlier . . . and when he did locate them, the settlers bludgeoned and ate him.
From these facts we can reason that
(A) human flesh is delicious!
(B) the food-mania had fallen upon the Donners.
What is the food-mania? A condition wherein a ravenous desire for sustenance above and beyond the demands of the stomach is triggered not by a scarcity of food, but a gross overabundance thereof.
The National Evil (sadly) can’t vouch for (A), but this weekend he experienced (B) with a gastronomic vengeance. He and a Donner party of friends attended the Sunday Braves game, buying the infamous All-You-Can-Eat seats. All you can eat of what? you ask. (You saucy dog!) Well:
Hot dogs. Pulled pork. Slaw. BBQ chicken wings. Potato salad. Cornbread. Popcorn. Peanuts. And BEER! BEER! BEER!
At seventy bucks, Evil math dictated that one would have to imbibe four (4) beers, a hot dog, and a bag of peanuts or so to make it worth the cash money.
That didn’t turn out to be a problem. Seven beers, three hot dogs, one sloppy helping of pulled pork, three chicken wings, one dollop of potato salad, one coating of slaw, one bag of popcorn and another of peanuts later, that seventy bucks came out a bargain.
During the forging of the last hot dog, the Evil realized the food-mania had come upon him. Having spied another AYCE-seater covering his hot dog with pulled pork, Evil was inspired to slather his with pulled pork, sauerkraut, and an entire piece of cornbread crumbled over the top. (Evil will not be outslathered.) This occurred during the later stages of the game, whence cops appear by the beer taps to maintain order. The Evil passed them by with his abomination of a hot dog and got a “Hell yeah!” from John Law. (Always nice to have JLaw on your side, eh?)
Our party staggered from the stadium, distended stomachs straining the waistbands of our slacks and hot pants . . . and yet, mere hours later, the Evil and three others found themselves at a restaurant ordering entire entrees—and an appetizer! What were we doing? we asked around mouthfuls of sweet, sweet food, our backs unnaturally hunched from hours of face-in-plate behavior, our chins slick with drool. We couldn’t stop. We didn’t want to.
On the way back from the restaurant, Evil passed a pizza delivery car and considered ramming it on its side, then falling on the driver, beating him senseless, and seizing his pizza. He only resisted because any kind of sudden, pummeling movement was beyond him at that point.
Now, if you will excuse Evil, he must be wrapping a pizza around a rotisserie chicken. His stomach is growling again . . .