What your view of sports and life would be if you had too many concussions
I’m old enough to remember when going to you mailbox was a daily event, and one you looked forward to, because there might actually be something interesting in it. Believe it or not, there was a time when people actually wrote letters to each other, and your mail was more than just bills and other bullshit.
Well, not too long ago, this little gem landed in the mailbag here at Dubsism World Headquarters.
The first thing that struck me is why would you do this in the recent aftermath of Thanksgiving? I understand the lure of a free mean as much as anybody, if not more. Let’s be honest, if you’ve been a regular reader of this blog, you know I’m a “plus-size” guy. 99 times out of 100, the term “blogger” usually goes hand-in-fork with “elastic waistband.” If you didn’t know that, all you have to do is look at all the jokes my follow bloggers whipped out when they roasted me,. The reason I’m bringing up the “fat-shamimg” from that collection of blog-hacks is pretty simple. The headline “Free Dinner” is going to get a grip on my attention tighter than Michael Moore getting his daily Heimlich manuever.
Once you flip the card over, the spread doesn’t look too bad. They’re showing what looks to be a tasty bit of roasted chicken with just about any side you could want, carrots, corn, green beans, mashed potatoes; I’m getting hungry just thinking about it. The pictures of the food have succeeded in garnering my attention; but my inner skeptic has still not been satiated. Why did somebody spend the postage to deposit this in my mailbox?
Because, they are inviting me to a seminar to talk about health and general well-being at possibly the worst restaurant in America for having such a discussion. If you aren’t familiar, Golden Corral is a place where for under 15 bucks, you can commit suicide by “all you can eat.”
By my own admission, I’m a little bigger around the middle than I should be, but I’m also a weight-lifter. My shoulders are three feet across. I have a hard time buying dress shirts because I have a 22-inch neck. I wear size 13 shoes and you can fit a quarter through my wedding ring. Like I said, I’m a big guy. But I look like an Ethiopian super-model compared to some of the cattle-sized masses of humanity you can see grazing in this place. If that visual isn’t enough, imagine the sound of 200 wooden chairs audibly struggling to support 400-pound people eating their weight in meatloaf and drinking gravy out of a coffee cup. This place has a chocolate fountain, which is not only just a slurry of fat and sugar, it runs rich with the boogers from the fingers of countless filthy-ass children, and yet some dilcue thinks this is where he’s going to change the lives of these gastropods?
I suppose, if you want to cure lepers, you have to go to a leper colony, but this has all the feel of those sleazy “Glengarry Glen Ross” type real-estate salesmen trying to sell you swampland in Florida, all under a fusillade of chicken wings being Heimlich-maneuvered from the gullets of people who have more chins than a Shanghai phone-book.
If that’s our salvation, no wonder I think it’s all going to be over soon.
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