I don't mean drank all night, eaten a subway sandwich on the way home and then thrown it up, or been sick in bed and eaten 4-alarm chili and had it projectile across your body lengthwise, burning both ways. While both hilarious stories I'm sure. Thats not what I mean. No, I mean being of perfectly sound health and stone sober and eating to the point where your body begins to reject it's own sustenance.
Not many people have done that.
I have.
It was a couple of years ago. A more innocent time, when I was less aware of how mean my body can be, and due to a set of awkward circumstances and potential social faux pas, I ended up eating 2 large dinners within an hour of each other. Silly me, I didn't think it was possible; But I ate 2 meals, threw them both up, and then had left overs of the second meal because I was hungry after my excellent toilet bowl adventure (or "bogus toilet bowl journey").
Thank god the second meal was Tacos. I can't stay mad at Tacos.
The reason I bring this up was because it almost happened again. You would think common sense would rule that once would be enough for any reasonable person and even the thought of coming close again would throw out giant STOP EATING warning signs. Unfortunately for common sense, it's powers are useless once I set foot past the opening archways of the Mandarin Buffet.
Something happens to me at this place that I can't quite describe. Sometime after finishing my second plate or so, it's stops being a joyous and delicious free for all, and becomes something more akin to some ancient tribe's brutal coming-of-age gorging ceremony of gluttony. It stops being enjoyable and just becomes a trial. I channel Takeru Kobayashi.
I couldn't even tell you why this happens. It's not a money thing, (or a G Thang), as Mandarin is decently priced, It's not like I'm not fed on a regular basis, nor do I ever eat to this magnitude anywhere else. Perhaps is the calming flute music they play that turns me into an glutton-monster.
All and all I devoured 4 large plates, 3 little plates and 3 small bowls, consisting of: Chicken balls, Shrimp, 2 kinds of Steak, fried chicken, Pork, Rice, Onion Rings, Fish, Noodles, Broccoli, Sushi, Jell-o, Salad, Eggs, Celery, Carrots, corn, pizza, mashed potatoes, gravy, garlic bread, sherbet, a Hot Fudge Sundae w/m&m's and a bunch of those little baby corns.
Surprisingly, no wheelbarrows were needed for my transport home.
So there I was, laid out on the couch, feeling like Manuel Uribe Garza. A man so fat that employs another man to clean his ass. Which, in my estimation, dethrones Jiz-mopper as the worlds worst job. Why don't they get Mike Rowe in there to clean Manuel's ass for a few days? (or shove Ryan Stock's stupid head up it, since he's so "extreme"...) Those would be Dirty Jobs episodes I'd TAPE.
...but I digress.
I felt as if with any yawn, any hiccup or deep breath, my stomach would tear open, spilling out guts and several different kinds of breaded meat. It would hemorrhage out of me like Tetsuo from Akira. They'd find my body in a redish brown pool of chunky buffet delights and once the story got out to the news, my death would be completely overshadowed by people comparing the event to the similar Monty Python bit, "Mr. Creosote".
"Monty Python comes true as boy's stomach explodes!" the headline would read. With any luck, my funeral would be catered by the good people at Mandarin Buffet. If the story got big enough, maybe my family could make a killing by licensing my likeness to a company that will make novelty piñatas of me that would be popular for kid's birthdays for years to come.
One can only dream of having such a legacy.
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