Has it already been two weeks since I went to the Olive Garden? Hard to believe. But the good news is that the team of gastrointestinologists monitoring my condition ‘round the clock has informed me that the meal is well on its way to being digested. So that’s cool. Hold on while I try to remember what happened that night.
Land of Souls and Olives, a Conclusion: Pasta La Vista Motherfuckers. Part 1.
More than a year ago, some people on the internet wanted to buy me a soul portrait, and gave me $150 to commission a mentally ill person to photoshop god lasers and dumb tigers on to my high school yearbook photo, or my driver’s license mugshot, or something. I of course refused, but graciously accepted the money anyway, and proceeded to labor over the spiritually meretricious document myself. I additionally made a somber vow to spend all one hundred and fifty dollars on a humorously mediocre Italian meal served at the Olive Garden, a chain to which American families compliantly fork over their dinner plans each year by the tens of billions, probably. I also pledged that I would record the endeavor carefully, in a drawn out faux-journalistic spiel that had loads of jokes in it. But since I’m currently weighed down with an olympiadic bronze statue’s fist worth of shitty pasta in my belly, and feeling a bit off, I give you this essay instead.