#he wants his neverending breadsticks

[faerieforeverr]

A saga, featuring Huggy Wuggy

#huggy wuggy #poppy playtime #huggy wuggy poppy playtime #olive garden #photoshoot #shitpost #meme #he wants his neverending breadsticks

[lukegoestoolivegarden]

Day 3 - All you can eat

My brother stepped out of the driver’s side door as four guys piled out of the small beige hatchback like a bunch of clowns, like the nerdy clown posse (*ring ring* Wait, there’s a phone in here? Huh. The caller ID just says “Kettle.” Hello? Oh hey bro, what’s up? Nerdy? I mean, I think that’s a fair statement. You were all in two types of band - regular and jazz. And you won an essay contest sponsored by the Future Farmers of America, and were the state representative to a conference in New York. I think nerdy is a fair label. Hmm? Yes this is a blog about eating an Olive Garden, and yes this is my third day in a row. But I don’t see how - no, I’m not tracking everything, just calories. Because it’s interesting to me, that’s why. Okay fine, I get that it’s a bit nerdy. No, I’m not calling myself that. No, I’m not going to do it. Will it get you off the phone? Sigh. “My name is Pot.” There? Are you happy now? Good. All right, talk to you later man).

The car was a 1981 Datsun Pulsar, a small hatchback that was physically incapable of going over 72 miles an hour - which coincidentally was also the number of horses under the hood of the car. How they managed to fit my brother, Steve, Mike, Rick, and Aaron - relegated to the middle of the back seat in a space only slightly larger than a car seat, which means that it was double the amount of space on a seat on Spirit Airlines. You could watch the car rise up multiple inches as they piled out and into the parking lot of Old Country Buffet. 

Unrelated to anything, the Pulsar was purchased for $500 in 1993 and sold for $50 in 2002, ending its life as part of the demolition derby at the county fair. I never head how it did, but given the condition the car was in when I learned how to drive it in 1994, I have to imagine it exploded in a fireball within the first 10 seconds, like it was being driven by Toonces the Driving Cat.

Unrelated to even less than the previous paragraph, the car demolition derby at the county fair has now been replaced by a farm machinery demolition derby. Yes, really.

They strode into the Old Country Buffet looking like a scene out of Reservoir Dogs, assuming Reservoir Dogs was directed by the Coen Brothers and were seated at a table near the ice cream machine, Mr. OhThat’sANiceNavyBlueDonchaKnow pulling out a sheet of paper and glancing at it before setting it down in the middle of the table.

Salad - 15 degree angle: 1 point

Salad - 30 degree angle: 2 points

Salad - 45 degree angle: 3 points

Chicken Wing: 2 points

Meatloaf: 4 points

Mashed Potatoes: 3 points per scoop, no additional points for gravy

Steve looked over the full-page list, grabbing a hold of one of the perforated, hole-y edges that had guided the paper through the dot matrix printer and ripped it off, checking to make sure that the last round of updates had been included (there would be no repeat of “The Great Mini-Corn Dog Controversy,” with extended debate about how many mini-corn dogs equal one full size corn dog). Satisfied, he set the page back down and headed out to get his first plate, a mixture of steamed vegetables, boiled fish, and rice pilaf that was worth double digit points and a solid start to the evening’s eating contest.

My brother and his friends figured that if you’re going to see who can eat the most, you might as well geek out and (*ring ring* I’m not answering that!) assign every item on the Old Country Buffet buffet a point value to determine who can put down the most food.

Tonight was the first time I turned down all offers of refills, even going so far as to ask for a box to take home the few last bites of pasta (although really leaving a few rigitoni and asking for the box was just a Trojan Horse for bringing home some meatballs for my father-in-law. In your face Big Meatball!).

Olive Garden is a food pusher, like my grandma who would make “a little lunch” that completely covered the kitchen table with the overflow plates relegated to the kitchen counters. The bartender (his name tag said Hock - “No, Hock. Huck with an o” the prom picturing woman from Day 1 would have explained) seemed genuinely surprised that I didn’t want more of anything. One bowl of salad. One order of breadsticks. One order of rigatoni with five cheese marinara, with meatballs (stolen meatballs!) on the side.

In researching the Pasta Pass, I’ve read stories from people who have tried to “Do Good” in previous years. One guy brought elderly members of his church. Another would ask for the pasta to be brought already boxed up, and then give it to the first person he saw standing on a street corner holding a cardboard sign.

Since I’m a terrible person, I’m not doing any of that (besides stealing meatballs for my father-in-law). I have the relative comfort to be able to spend $100 on a Pasta Pass and I filled my belly with 1,250 calories (and yes, at some point I will be ordering both the minimum and maximum number of calories at meals, and no, 1,250 isn’t the maximum). 

But since I’m not a completely terrible person, I’ve decided that at the end of the two months, I’ll be making a donation to Second Harvest Heartland, a local foodbank to offset any guilt - a “carbo credit” if you will - from having access to neverending food. 

Estimated calories this visit: 1,250

Estimated total calories: 3,540

Miles run so far: 10.6