That, my friends, is a lunch.
And it was served on the job--that job about which I wrote yesterday.
The woman on the crew--seriously, no sexism is implied--bought a little hibatchi yesterday (we'd all thrown in money) and, today, she grilled the dead cow and the cylindrical meat-stuffs. 'Twas tres bien.
Lisa said, "I have one more hot dog, here. Anyone want it?"
No answer was necessary. She jabbed the hot dog in a bun and walked it over to me.
Ken looked at me and threw his head back in silent laughter, shaking his head, his eyes squinched tight. "Dude," he finally said, "you're an animal. You're a fucking machine!"
I grovelled half the hot dog down in one bite--I was Takeru Kobayashi!--and chewed and swallowed and said, "Hey, it's damn good food. And I'm starving, man."
[My apologies to the homeless and the kids in third-world countries and people just basically down on their luck--and pocketbook.]
I was hungry. And the food was there. So...I ate.
After lunch, I attacked the hole (in the ground) with renewed vigor. Never mind the liquified dirt in which I was (getting my boots sucked off) stuck. I had eaten All-American good-assed fare! I was invincible!
And I'd hit my caloric threshold for the week--in one sitting. All was good.
Repent! Thy name is Gluttony.