Blood on the Ice Cream

I don't want to get into the habit of airing out my boring day-to-day experiences here, because this ain't no plop or blorg or whatever they're called. Besides, that's what my tear-stained diary is for. But tonight, I thought perhaps, just maybe, something happened to me worth talking about. I ate the most food I've ever eaten in one sitting. Ever. It was awesome. And it took forever, too, which was almost as awesome.

I dragged my buddy, Kevin D (the D is IMPORTANT) to dinner. He claimed that he had eaten a banana several days ago and therefore was not very hungry. A banana? Yes. A banana. Just one banana? Yeah, but it was big. Like the size of two bananas. So, you ate a large banana about the size of 1 1/2 regular bananas (because I know you're exaggerating)? Yeah, but bananas have a lot of bulk. Whatever. This guy needs some food. But more importantly, I need food. Because everything begins with I in my universe. ME! comes a close second.

You see, I'm trying to gain weight. I'm built like a broken flagpole. Skinny and frail. Like a beautiful feather, floating around, inspiring mentally-challenged men to reminisce about their lives to perfect strangers while offering gourmet chocolates as a sign of goodwill. But not really beautiful. No, more like the feathers on a tar soaked bird floating through the Exxon-Valdez disaster. Kind of sad and pathetic.

So, my mission is to eat like a fucking pig until I put on 20 pounds. That will bring me to a rough total of 75 pounds. I have every intention of doing this healthfully. I go to the gym. Really. I exercise a good 15 minutes every month or so. And when the neighborhood girls chase me, throwing rocks, I can usually outrun them until they break out their Big Wheels. So believe me; when I pack on the 20 pounds (ok, lets face it, it'll be more like 5), it's gonna be pure, rock hard, panty-moistening, shirt-ripping muscle. Not fat.

Another friend had a similar goal a couple years ago, but reversed. Put on the pounds, but not as muscle. He succeeded and I applauded him. I must also succeed where my predecessors have.

So tonight, the choice was between hospital food and Claim Jumper. The hospital has some pretty good food. It's also pretty healthy, but it's all vegetarian. I crave protein as meat. Soy just wouldn't fit the bill tonight. It's steak and burgers for me, buddy.

I was already famished before I picked Kevin up. But then we had to wait like 4 hours to get a table at Claim Jumper. Then another 7 to get our food. The waitress offered to put my plate in a blender and feed it to me intravenously when it finally came. I'm telling you I was hungry. Now, my original intention was to get prime rib. Kevin convinced me to order a 24 oz'er instead of that pussy shit 16 oz cut. Hey, hungry is as hungry does. Unfortunately, it wasn't prime-rib night. So I asked the waitress what she thought was good. She recommended the rib-eye, then changed her mind and said the cowboy steak was the best. Both were 16 oz, but what the hell? I don't even like steak. I like prime-rib! So I ordered the cowboy steak with roasted vegetables and garlic bread. And cesar salad. If I can't have my 24 oz gut buster, I'm gonna fill up on veggies and bread instead, man. I needs me my fiber.

So, like another 3 days later, the waitress comes out again and informs me that she made a mistake. Instead of ordering me a cowboy, she ordered a rib-eye. She offered to put in a new order for the cowboy, but I told her not to. I was hallucinating, I was so hungry. Besides, I already said I don't like steak. So it doesn't really matter to me what the hell kind it was. It could be goat steak for all I care. Just stick it on the plate and give it to me dammit.

Finally, we get our food and I get to eat. In the world of steaks, this one wasn't too bad. I realized that A-1 and Worschershire actually made it taste worse, which is a good thing. That means its natural flavor, though subtle, was quite nice. But then, in the middle of everything, the waitress comes out again and tells us that, due to her mistake, desserts would be on the house. Sweet, man! I couldn't tell you the difference between a cowboy steak or rib-eye if my life depended on it, but suddenly the distinction meant that I could eat another 40,000 calories tonight.

Now, I admit, I didn't eat every bite of the steak. It was a 16 oz'er, and (Kevin will back me up on this) I ate approximately 12 oz's of it. As Kevin put it, it was another 3 bites. I was saving myself for dessert like a mormon girls saves herself for marriage - by taking it up the pooper. Besides, my dreams of impressing Kevin by eating 2 pounds of pure meat were dashed when I was told that it wasn't prime rib night. So who cares? Forget that last couple of ounces in my rib-eye whatever. I had already eaten a cesar salad, garlic bread, roasted vegetables and a 12 oz steak. Not too bad. I would say a fairly sizeable meal for me. Not in the grand scheme of things, but a large meal nonetheless.

And then it happened. I ordered the mud pie. Now, I've had plenty o' mud pies in my day. Like at Friday's. They're usually cakey with some ice cream layers or something. The menu showed that you could get a regular one for $7.20 or a half slice for significantly less. I doubted whether or not I would eat an entire slice of mud pie, but this one was earned. I actually ate rib-eye tonight, so I was entitled. Full size mud pie slice, please.

Now, to build muscle, the body needs protein. Our muscles are made of protein, so we can add to them by working out and eating lots of protein, which is then broken down to its basic amino acids, and reformulated on your muscle tissue. But your body needs extra calories to do this. I guess the process of breaking down your muscles when you work out and the process of building them back up stronger requires an extra kick of calories to make them amino acids stick. To do this right, you're supposed to eat a balanced diet. Lots of protein, some fat and even some carbohydrates (regardless of whatever Dr. Atkins had to say about that) are necessary. But if the balance goes way off, like you get too much cholesterol in your diet, you'll get heart disease and die before you're 50. That's not what I want. I'd like to see the other side of the half-century. I'm saying this because I want to emphasize what happens next.

When the mud pie came out (the mint-chocolate chip variety), my initial response was "Holy shit, that's a big piece of pie." I mean, it was as if the ice-cream machine rolled into town, the townsfolk sawed its mint-chocolate chip ice-cream wheels into giant wedges, sat one on a bed of cookie crumbs, then hauled it over to my table. The fucker was huge. I've heard health experts say that meals we eat in restaurants are large enough to feed a small family, but I've never believed it until now.

I started to feel guilty because I wasn't sure if the cost of my mud pie disaster would actually be subtracted from our waitress's paycheck. I mean, how the hell am I going to eat 5 pounds of ice cream? The sheer volume of the pie was like 2 more rib-eye steaks.

But ice cream is a funny thing. It comes to you as a solid, but enters your stomach as a liquid. It ain't water, but it has a way of efficiently spilling into the tightest crevaces of your bloated belly. Before I knew it, half my pie was gone. Down my gullet it splashed into the murky, beef colored mush below.

Then, as I chomped on a sizeable chunk of chocolate, I split open my lip. This was war. I was bleeding for this pie. This pie was going to pay!

At one point, I actuall got some blood on the pie itself (the blood scraped off my lip onto my fork, which in turn, wiped onto the pie). I showed kevin the red spot before I ate it. I was winning the battle. I would be king of Claim Jumper.

The busboy took notice of this history-making event. He called over to the kitchen, where the chefs were cleaning up for the night. Soon, 300 of the surliest restaurant staff in the county was cheering me on. I turned to them: "You motherfuckers want something to see? Bow before me, plankton!" With that, I swallowed the final bite of the green pie of doom. The evil had been trounced. The blood which had spilled forth once again swirled in the bowels of my own respite. Roses were showered upon my feet and I was presented a shining chalice. A chalice from whence to drink the love of my 1000 virgin concubines. The ground shook as I laughed into the groaning faces of the pitiful. This was my day. My day to shine.

Ask Kevin. He was there. Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention: I'm lactose intolerant. But it was worth it, baby.

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