It's Friday night. You're tired and don't want to cook.
Some friends had invited you over for dinner. But they're pretty weird, you think, and you don't recognize what they say they're having. You declined.
You decide to go out to eat. You go downtown to a block that used to have twenty restaurants, but nineteen are boarded up. The line to get into the only one still open is endless.
You wait patiently in line for two hours and finally get seated. The waiter brings you the menu - a post-it note with only two items: fresh shit on a shingle and leftover shit on a shingle.
There's only one waitron and the place is mobbed. The little bot finally comes back after an hour. You ask, "Anything besides shit on a shingle?" It says, "Let. Me. Ask. Cook." and whirs off. Comes back in an hour. "We. Had. More. Choices. Too. Expensive. You. Want. Fresh. Or. Leftover?"
With a sigh, you order fresh shit on a single. Another hour later, Tron squeaks up with a six-inch-round styrofoam saucer holding a small scoop of a rancid, stinky, lukewarm, lumpy brown substance. And your check. $120. Mandatory 20% gratuity tacked on. Tron intones, "Out. Of. Fresh. This. Leftover. Bon. Appetit." It's now 3 am.
Well, you've hung in there so far, so what's another bad meal? You stuff a couple of napkins in your nostrils, fire up the ole' iPod, and gag it down (literally).
Walking home, your breathing becomes labored, your limbs become rigid, and you begin to hallucinate. Darth Nadir at a presidential podium flanked by Veep Smackdown adVentura and AG Paris Hilton.
The last thought before you lapse into a coma is, "Maybe carrot souffle, grilled fava beans, and brown rice pudding with my friends wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe they'll invite me in early November".