A couple years ago, I was a student at Indiana University, weighing 425 pounds and loving life. I would wake up in a pile of beer cans and fast food wrappers and lick the special sauce off empty Big Mac boxes until I had the strength to get in my car and drive the forty yards to 7-11, where I'd eat about four dozen taquitos and a backpack full of corndogs. College. Good times.
Then one day I got really fucked up and went to Subway. I hadn't been drinking alcohol, just orange soda. I guess I drank so much that my blood's PH level dropped a little. So there I am at subway, hallucinating, watching this little Indian guy make an Italian sub, but all the while I'm thinking, "This crazy fuck is building an atomic bomb!" I kinda lost my shit at that point, blacking out and causing roughly $25,000 in damage to the "restaurant."
When I came to, I was eating Sun Chips and mayonnaise, having barricaded myself behind the counter by knocking over the oven where they bake the bread fresh each day. The cops were all pissed off and waving their guns at me, but all I could do was toss shredded lettuce in the air and shout, "It's snowing sinew!" Not my finest hour in terms of behavior, but it was in terms of deliciousness: I must have drank about a gallon of chipotle cheesesteak sauce. I don't know if they added that onto the final bill. Probably.
Anyway, the thirty pounds or so of processed meats that I drilled didn't fix the acidity in my blood, and I kept on wiggin' out. As a joke, I took a loaf of fresh baked bread and pointed it like a gun at my hostage, a giant, savory ham. Unfortunately, the bread was actually a semi-automatic pistol, which I had somehow obtained in one of my preliminary scuffles with the fuzz, and the ham was a six year old girl named Emily, which I must have grabbed when I finished all the turkey and roast beef.
That was the last straw. The police open fired on me and I hit the ground like a sack of yams. I had been shot thirty three times, and only the thick layer of fat surrounding my head kept the bullets from reaching my brain. I was rushed to the hospital where I remained in a coma for over a year. When I woke up, I was 245 pounds lighter. Subway executives had bribed the doctors to remove my feeding tube. They just wanted me dead, but when I survived for thirteen months off my lifetime's accumulation of fat reserves, they decided to make me their spokesman and call it even for the damage (and poor little Emily's death). It's true: I could never have lost all that weight without Subway.
So that's my story. Sure, it's nice being able to see my feet again. Back in the old days I usually pissed outside rather than use a toilet, since I was really bad at guessing which way my dick was pointing. Big mess. But you don't think that every time I'm eating a delicious sweet onion teriyaki sub I'm saying to myself, "Goddamn, what I wouldn't give to deep fat fry this disgusting shit in a big vat of ice cream and olive oil?" Mmm"Â¦
How big is Yao Ming's cock, I wonder. I wish I knew his height in metric units. It'd make the ratios easier to figure out.
_____Regicides Anonymous is a professional humorist and regular contributor to CRACKED.com. His blog, Regicides Anonymous, can be read http://danilo.cracked.com-|-here.
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