Wow! When I entered the dining hall at UMB for an afternoon lunch, I almost fucking passed out. The succulent smell of delicious, fine-dining cuisine made my fucking mouth water. As If I were a rabid dog, saliva spewed off my chin as I raced past the friendly food rep at the front door.
With an unparalleled alacrity, I dashed to claim my spot in line for a delicious, decadent combination meal. Jesus Christ! It was my luck day: a heaping plate of dried-up turkey thighs--presumably fried in pig fat--slathered in a shit-pigmented gravy.
|Sodexo's Wonderful Turkey Dinner|
No worries! The perspiration cascading off the Sous Chef’s mustache will suffice just fine.
As the consummate professional slaps the bird on my plate, I ask to have, in its accompaniment, a side of brown rice.
A plume of steam pirouettes into the air and I am not yet convinced that it’s due to fresh, hot food as much as it is to miasmic, toxic fumes.
As I carry my tray throughout the cafe, I double check to make sure I’m not in heaven. Fucking Burger King! Holy Shit!
How could I have passed up the chance to inflate my arteries with a nice piece of processed shit smothered in mayo, ketchup, mustard, onions, pickles and cheese?
Passing the BK, my eyes catch sight of pizza slices. Immediately, I am catapulted back to the time I had to visit my geriatric grandmother in the hospital. My momentary reverie is then punctuated by the irreversible urge to puke all over my sweater.
Just before the spittle spatters, I see—glowing in the distance like a beacon—fresh sushi!!!
Holy shit! Fucking Sushi??? Wow, the butterflies flutter like fucking torpedoes deep inside my stomach and—in a maniacal rage—I knock some poor decrepit lady to the floor in my haste to get my hands on some grade-A, quality fucking sushi.
|Sodexo's Authentic Japanese Sushi|
Happier than a pig in shit, I skip like a school-girl to the checkout line.
Wow, is this meal about ready to kick the shit out of my hunger, or what? I mean, my hunger is like a little midget bastard facing Goliath; no fucking chance in hell.
Fucking teardrops as big as bowling balls roll down my cheeks and I’m not quite sure if it’s the result of pure glee, or the fucking onion powder smeared all over the bird—surely a last measure to disguise its rancidness.
Well, whatever it is, I am fucking stoked when I finally reach the cashier.
With a smile that could stop a fucking heartbeat, she rings my order up. As she does so, I can’t get her to shut her yap. She’s so polite that she’s asking me about my day, my life, and my academic ambitions. Holy shit, I’m pretty sure I just witnessed this lady’s jaw jump right off her fucking face.
Jesus Christ, I am so fucking blown away by this lady—whose altruism is tantamount to fucking Mother Theresa’s—that I give her a big hug and kiss before I head to the wonderful tables that aren’t dirty or anything.
I sit my ass in the plush, leather-cushioned couches that adorn the dining hall and I draw my fork.
I take one bite of the delicious slab of meat and—holy fuck—I am transported back to the days of yore when the fucking Indians met the Pilgrims! This is like the original fucking Thanksgiving feast. This domestic fowl is so goddamned delicious, I’m afraid my glands are going to explode out of my ears. Is it the dryness of the Griswald-bird or the paralysis of my throat muscles— due to extreme excitement— that causes me to expel a swirl of turkey detritus and diet coke straight into my lap?
Surely, it is the latter because the incendiary sparks of joy and excitement cause a raging inferno around my leather couch. I am so happy with my gobbler that I eagerly cleanse my palate in preparation for the sushi.
Wow! As I look down at the presentation, my mind shatters into a thousand pieces. Mounds of wasabi and fresh, pickled ginger—it’s fresh when it’s colored piss-yellow, right?—surround the sushi rolls. As I pop the first roll, I feel as though I have popped ecstasy; fucking pure molly. Serotonin rushes like a goddamned tsunami throughout my entire body. I can hear the fucking gongs of Japan resonating loudly in the distance. Suddenly, I am wearing a sumo-wrestler’s outfit. This is the best sushi I have ever had.
As I make for the door, I am so stuffed that I shit my sumo diaper. I mean, all of that delicious fare had no part in ravaging my poor digestive system, did it? I mean, it’s entirely possible to shit your pants, directly upon finishing a meal, if the food is fresh and chemical-free, right?
Whatever the reasoning, it’s fitting because, like I said earlier, I am happier than a pig in shit! They say you defecate in your pants when you die. Fuck, I clearly must have died and gone to heaven.
Thank you, Sodexo, for providing the best food this side of the Mississippi.