You want to know something amazing? I haven’t eaten fast food that I’ve purchased since the 4th of July weekend. That’s almost a month, this being the 3rd. Notice, however, that I said “that I’ve purchased”. Twice this week — in three days — someone has brought me food at work. The programming and technician guys are cool, and if one of them stops at BK, they get stuff for all of them. Usually those Enormous Sandwich Thingies (eggnormous, meatnormous, cheesenormous, grossnormous). Monday one of them did just that, only one guy had already eaten on the way in to the office. So he gave me his sandwich. I’d eaten as well — a generic Target brand SlimFast Chocolate shake, just like always — but what the hell. Mmm, 800 calories of pure fat, I mean, taste. You know what? Nasty, man. My stomach was like a steel-belted radial tire, just sticking out perpendicular to my torso. And I’m in good shape, with hardly any fat, so just imagine what one of those things does to someone who’s an out-of-shape LooseTummyDude? I scarcely dare give it utterance. All I know is, I was sleepy all day. Seriously, the ladies could have been all up-ons, and I would have been too sensorily slow to notice.
And today, same thing. At least this time, it was just a Croissanwich. Sausage, Egg, Cheese, in the Croissanwich. Now that’s the definition of taste.

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I hate to go back and mine the same well as I did yesterday, but I can’t help that funny stories have happened on the road to me two days in a row. Honest. So here’s another inductee into the “David Lee Roth Leaving Van Halen” pantheon of really, insidiously dumb ideas:
Out for lunch, me and a colleague — we’ll call him “Vince” — are driving back to the office in The Colorado. Motley Crue “Girls Girls Girls” comes on the XM, and with the windows down, we’re jammin, yo. I don’t know what Vince ate for lunch, but as we rolled up to a stop light next to what was obviously an undercover cop (white Caprice Classic, no Chevy indicias, giant cone-shaped mirror on the drivers-side fender) he yells, right along with the song, “Hey Tommy, look there!”, pointing at the cop.
So I played along. “Where, Vince, where?”
“There!” Followed by Vince whistling. It was a fairly hot woman cop in the undercover car. Funny. And a ludicriously absurd coincidence that vocal portion of the song would be playing just as we pulled to a stop.
No harm done, so its good stuff. A couple blocks later, I run a yellow light in my haste to get back to work. Turns red just as we get through the intersection. Guess who’s still beside us? You got it. Undercover LadyCop. I’m sure we’re busted. What is a ticket run these days for a stop-light violation? Hard to say. Because she never pulled us over. Just ran the light with us, and at the next light, which we did not run, she gave us the “You’d better not do that again, funny boy, or I will write yo ass a ticket.” Just sternness, meanness, cruelty.
So of course I turned off and took an alternate route in. Of course. Undercover LadyCop was scary.