You’re sitting around on a Tuesday night, when a cloaked figure knocks on your door. He seems to be floating just above the ground, and in the darkness, you have a hard time making out his face through the peephole, but you ordered pizza about 45 minutes ago, and well… hey, Papa Johns!
You open the door and, much to your dismay, there’s no pizza in the strange figure’s hands. Oh, right, and he also introduces himself as Death, so there’s that.
After a 20 minute conversation, in which you make every effort to not accidentally brush into his elbow, he decides to let you live for another couple hours. Fuck it. He’s got some time to kill before he sneaks up and taps Amy Winehouse on the shoulder, anyway.
Then, while you’re trying to decide what to do with your remaining hours, Death does the unthinkable; he whips out his wallet and offers to buy you a last meal. This Death is one lovable harbinger of impending doom, isn’t he?
Well, what do you choose? Do you break Death’s bank and go for the lobster and steaks that you could only afford when they came from Sizzler? Maybe something completely random that you’d normally have to travel to China to eat?
My list is surprisingly simple. Fuck Emeril Lagasse and Bobby Flay right in the eye. I don’t want a gourmet meal to close out my final moments… I wan’t grease. Lots and lots of grease. I want all the food that I never had the chance to enjoy because doctors and the board of health said it was unfit for human consumption. I want the things I passed up because I was on a date, and worried that my bowels would give out halfway through post-dinner sex. I want bacon and cheese and everything that causes severe anal leakage.
Normally, when you eat like a cow, there are nightmarish repercussions the following morning. But with Death at your doorstep, you can eat more fried food than any human being not named Joey Chestnut, and not worry about the porcelain destruction that would typically result from such a gluttonous act, because there is no tomorrow morning.
My final meal would look something like this:
- 2 pitchers of Brahma beer.
- 1 order of Shenanigans loaded cheese fries. Extra ranch dressing.
- 1 order of Ale House chicken nachos. Extra lettuce and salsa.
- 2 Mozzarella and Meatballs Hot Pockets.
- 1 Dolphin Stadium foot-long hot dog.
- 1 Dolphin Stadium corn dog.
- 4 slices of Umberto’s mushroom pizza. Crust slightly burnt. Topped with a sprinkle of grated parmesan cheese.
- 1 Fuddruckers 1lb-cheeseburger combo meal. Topped with lettuce, tomato, onions, mustard and ketchup.
- 1 homemade Kit Kat from Chef Allen’s restaurant in Aventura, FL.
- 1 large tub of Coldstone Creamery’s cake batter ice cream with the following mix-ins: Kit Kat, NESTLE Crunch Bar, M&M’s, Ghirardelli chocolate chips, Butterfinger and Heath Bar.
Then, and only then, can Death finish his job.
And just as he touches me with his mangled, boney finger, I will puke all over his dark robe and into the vacant holes of his face, so that he, too, may experience the sheer awesomeness of my final meal.
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