Fast, Fried, and out of Control

I'm not good on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings. Such is the price I pay to make big money, drive big cars, and have everybody know me like I'm a movie star. So when Vitamin E is on a tight sched, he likes to have him some pfast pfood. It's not indulgence so much as it's the easy -- und tasty! -- option when I'm too lazy to cook for myself (every day) and when Legs is too lazy to cook for me (today; and I don't want to see a trend start!).

Enter: McDelivery, God's gift to cretins. Say what you will about The House That Ray Croc Built, but nothing, and I mean nothing, goes down quite as rewardingly as a McD's hashbrown, a Sausage McMuffin, a vanilla milkshake, and a blowjob after an hour of morning work. Let me sleep for 45 minutes to an hour and a half afterward, and I'm a new man.

But it's a vicious circle, I tell you. There aren't many Popeye's franchisees around these parts (or anywhere) in this, the latter half of the first decade of the 21st century; and when Edgar Ford is on the go, well, you know, he always keeps his Popeye's radar on blast. Because those French fries are tastier than anything not Arby's Curly Fries. Quote me.

So that's what I had to eat today for breakfast and dinner (fuck lunch). And you? Post a comment, would you? I'm genuinely curious.

There's only one more thing I think that really needs to be said, and it's that

(I'm bad, bad, and a-wicked in bed)

a half hour ago this worthy went up to the rooftop to do what he does remarkably well, ie. smoke a square, and he espied a middle school student furtively eating cup ramen in the shadows.

And now I'm depressed as hell.