Ok, self. You bit into this huge ol’ bacon stacked, aioli-shmeared beefy weirdness and immediately the first bite was a punch to the gut. Holy cow. We shouldn't have ordered it. But now what? Now what, as your family and peers watch, what now, after Sheryl said you'd never finish such a huge meal and how it was a waste, what now, after that hungry man outside began watching you intensely through the window, now that we have but precious time before the show? What say you, what now?
You have to go through with it. Yes. You must eat this burger. This is the gauntlet you've been training for.
Oh sweet cheezus, ugh. Ugh, ugh ugh. The second bite was much worse than the first. Oh my gosh, there's no way you can swallow it! The swallowing mechanism is stoned shut. Little. By. Little. Oh. Fudge. Me. Sideways.
You gotta eat this hambeezy, mofo.
Oh, self. Oh, gentle, stupid, miseable self, you are f*cked. You know if you continue eating this huge grease-slogged meat-biscuit you will either puke ‘til kingdom come or suffer ten hours of uncontrollable diarrhea like a walking Pepto Bismol commercial.
Oh crackers, oh Mallory J. Peter-Whiskers. Blurgh!
Oh you son of a gun, you dumb son of a bitch, it looked just so good in the ad but when you unwrapped it you almost cried. Now you'll have this soggy, baby-sized mash churning your stomach to shreds. You'll stink up the house! Every trip to the lavatory will be a parade to hell, every time the bastards will whistle that insufferable burger jingle at you, sing it louder and louder until finally they're bellowing at the tops of their lungs while you eject hell's own wrath from both ends, sobbing to yourself between each attack in exhausted surrender.
Oh fudge, you fool! That bite almost didn't stay down! Abort! Abort! For the love of ground sirloin, abort mission!
No...no. You dumb twat. You have to go through with it.
It probably wouldn't be so bad if you hadn't eaten that whole bag of party-size Skittles an hour ago. Or that corndog. And, the other corndog. Ok dude, steady on, stay the course. Let every burning belch out. Control it. That's it. Were gonna get thru, self. There's light at the end of the tunnel.
They can all see you're sweating buckets but who cares? Bite, chew, chew. Bite, chew, chew. Come on, we’re doing it! Last--wad--trapped--mid--throat...quench me, Captain Sprite. Blurgh. There. Swallowed and done. Resist that urge to break into bittersweet tears. Crush your wrapper into a ball, like a man. Whatever happens now, they will always say, He ate it, he never flinched, never cried for his mother, never chickened out.
We did it, you lucky idiot. We did it.
Strain: The Big
This is Indica-dominant hybrid is…
Alright, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "We've had rock. We've had pop. Hip…
On the tail end of the Great Recession in 2009, we, the Cannapages…