Papageorge Eee Ooh, Real American Hero

The other day I was driving out of my neighborhood for a fast food breakfast (the only means of maintaining as stunning a physique such as mine). I awoke after 11am (yes, it was a weekday. Don’t judge me, or I’ll be force to remind you that the song “We Are the Champions” was written about me and the direction my life is going in), which meant Taco Bell, since McDonald’s is done serving their delicious breakfast McLard-pucks by 10:30.

There isn’t much that brings me joy in life, but the consumption of high-sugar, high-sodium “food” that can be purchased for about the same price as a Cambodian toddler has never failed to give me nipple-stiffies. In fact, if we really want to keep it real, the only thing that keeps me from checking the muzzle velocity of my .45 with the roof of my mouth is daily inhalation of Wegman’s gelato and Taco Bell finally putting some $0.89 chicken items on their value menu to replace the Spicy Chicken Burrito which, like Elvis, was bloated, delicious and taken from us all too soon. If going to bed dreaming of three soft chicken tacos for breakfast is wrong, may I never be right.

You can understand my perturbment, then, when my path was blocked not a mile into my journey by an overturned Fastran van. For those unfamiliar with Fastran, it is a system of ugly blue-white busses that look like the retarded offspring of a 70s shaggin’ wagon and a shark. The vehicles drive old folks around to wherever old folks go (I imagine Shoney’s, with its all-too-affordable liver and onions dinner, is a popular destination) and make me feel bad about myself for contributing to society in a meaningful way. But my self-loathing at the sight of this beached whale of a van doing the Lord’s work quickly turned to rage as I realized it stood between me and restaurant whose food I spent years developing a resistance to the diarrhea-causing properties of.

I quickly surveyed the scene : tragically, my easiest path of escape was blocked by the cars that had since appeared behind me. Deciding to make the best of a bad situation (and put a dent in the sin debt of the roughly 46,000 times I’ve pleasured myself), I got out of my car, walked up to the opened back hatch of the overturned geezer-freezer and checked to see if I could contribute in any meaningful way.

The seen was pitiful, with crushed wheelchairs, oxygen tanks thrown helter skelter and leathery form after leathery, disoriented form being eased out of the back by a few other concerned citizens (no doubt working off their whack-debt as well). I asked a slack-jawed, gawking yokel woman who was standing a few feet away from the scene (who, in retrospect, was probably not the best source of information) if anyone needed any help. She replied that she thought it was under control, and, at those words, my eyes glossed over. In under twenty seconds, I had hopped back in my car, driven on the grass to make a u-turn and shagged ass the hell out of there. If I had to choose between comforting a few shaken senior citizens or making sure the United States economy didn’t come to a screeching halt by patronizing its fine eateries, however difficult, I knew the choice I had to make. Oink oink oink oink oink.