One of the most pathetic things I’ve done involves Mario the Baker as an indirect cause, and it just happened earlier this morning. It’s not a very pretty day out there.
Last night, as is typical of most Mondays for me, I didn’t feel like cooking so I ordered out. There are a few places I tend to restrict myself to: Wok Town, Le Boudoir, and Mario the Baker. Mario the Baker’s Italian fare isn’t the best. If you order spaghetti & meatballs you’ll get dry meat with little flavor along with an uninspired pomodoro sauce. Anything with Alfredo sauce and you’ll be eating baking soda and bleach for dinner just to get the taste out. Their garlic bread is about as flavorful as saline. On the other hand, their pizza is spot on which is one of the reasons I often order from there.
Their garlic bread is about as flavorful as saline.
Anyway, in addition to my dinner last night I ordered a tiramisu. I love tiramisu. If dick tasted like tiramisu I’d seriously consider it. Sure, like nearly all desserts it’s terrible for you, but doing terrible things is the most American thing you can do, such as eating too much, starting wars, and ignoring the plight of Africa. I get this tiramisu and I name it Missy. I write it poetry and tell my friends I’ve met this new girl who is “so sweet.” Mind you, Mario the Baker’s tiramisu isn’t even that good. It’s got too much cream and the cinnamon topping doesn’t even taste like cinnamon, but it’s tiramisu.
Unfortunately, I did the unthinkable. I ate too much “food” and left no room for dessert, but being full it didn’t bother me as much as it normally would. It was like Schroedinger’s Sweets; I was simultaneously distraught and indifferent about the situation. So whatever, I sack up and go to sleep.
When I wake in the morning, I’m doing my usual “eat a pop tart while showering” routine and start thinking about what’s waiting for me in the refrigerator. Missy might as well have been sexting me, that whore. After I’ve gone through my morning routine and am about to step out, I stop and open the fridge to get my little bottle of orange juice and that little cunt Missy starts whispering promises of orgasms and a day where all my jokes are met with laughter. I sneakily looked around, as if I were about to tell a black joke, and grabbed the tiramisu along with a plastic fork and headed out the door.
I sneakily looked around, as if I were about to tell a black joke…
As you guys know, today has been a miserable rainy day so far. I’m a moron for leaving my car at the office so I had to take the metro mover. It’s not like it’s far, but it’s a hassle walking to work in the rain. So I’m walking to the station holding my umbrella with one hand and the delicious tiramisu with the other. When I arrive at the station the damn mover is already there, so I haul ass up the stairs hoping to catch it. No dice, it scoots away with its sardine-like pack of people. Knowing how long of a gap the Brickell-to-downtown movers tend to have in the mornings and being alone at the station, I’m like “hell yeah, let me eat this bad boy.”
I’m standing on the platform with a closed umbrella between my legs making a cool erection shadow as I eat my tiramisu when not even 40 seconds later the next mover shows up. That shit’s not supposed to happen. Normally someone would just close up their little box of shame and head in there, but no, like taking an awesome piss I can’t just stop mid-stream. I walk in there like I fucking own the place with my clear plastic container full of gooey dessert and pack myself in there with the 1,000 other people on their way to work. And I eat. And eat. And eat.
…with a closed umbrella between my legs making a cool erection shadow…
People stared, of course, and I couldn’t figure out if they were disgusted by watching some guy in his mid-20s eat dessert for breakfast in public transportation, or if they were awestruck and rooting for me internally. I like to think my gluttonous fat fuckery motivated them in some way; motivated them to no longer care what people think, or to hit the gym with a vengeance. It was when we arrived at the Riverwalk station where I decided to slow my pace and enjoy Missy in public rather than trying to shamefully enjoy my vice like some CEO going to Thailand on “business.”
That’s what life is all about. No, that’s not a metaphor, I literally mean you should eat some fucking tiramisu on a metro mover.
People who would enjoy it
People who would not enjoy it
- 43 W Flagler St
- Miami, FL 33130
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