Drink Alert!

I know that many people love Frank J. Hey, it's all good, I enjoy reading his writing as well. But excuse me while I simply state that Steve is the funniest guy on this side of the Blogosphere.

Do I care that lawsuits have made it harder to buy a Cessna? No. I do not fly, except in a partially reclining chair from which I can periodically cry out for tiny bottles of vodka. Do I care that I can no longer buy lawn darts and lob them over the hedge when the neighbors' kids make noise? No, as long as I know how to aim a sprinkler head.

I DO care that I can no longer buy fries in a container that doubles as a makeshift shelter. It was bad enough when those pussies quit frying them in beef grease and started using Mobil 1 or whatever artery-coddling Vegan solstice orgy lube they use now. But when they go after size, they go after the heart of the fast food gluttony ethic.

Am I not entitled--nay, obligated--to overindulge at the drive thru? Did I shoehorn my massive ass behind the wheel of my car and wait in line behind a contraception-challenged brood sow in a minivan who takes twenty minutes to make her kids order just so I can dine responsibly? Hell, no. I came to get down; I came to get down. So take off that headset and jump around. And get me a Coke I can play Marco Polo in, before I pull your sullen, minimum-wage, nose-ring wearing head through that window and suffocate you amongst my folds.

HAAAAAAAAAAAA! BWAAAAA HAAAAAAAAAAAA! (oh god, my ribs!)