Why Did I Eat This?

 

With all of the crap I've been eating lately, I may as well just change the name of the blog to "Why Did I Eat This?" or maybe, "How Am I Still Alive?"  I suppose there's the possibility of a spinoff, but nine times out of ten, spinoffs are depressingly unsuccessful (did anyone watch "Joey"?  If you did, please stop reading now because you're making my blog a lot less cooler than it should be).  Speaking of which, I was able to catch the Sixers vs. Jazz* game this past Friday, and in true fat ass fashion, I spent more time back and forth to the vendors than I did watching the Jazz crush the poor Sixers (actually, since there was literally nobody there, the food lines weren't that long, so I think I may have managed to see at least half of it).

I really miss the days when basketball was cool.   Nowadays, the freakishly tall dudes just look bored running up and down the court.  It's kind of sad, but if nothing else, it gives me an excuse to eat arena food, and as written so eloquently in a previous post, it gets better as you get closer to the action.  The poor saps eating hot dogs way up high (even though they could have easily walked down) ain't got nothin' on two of my favorites: chili cheese fries and boneless buffalo wings.  As you can see above, the chips are replaced with french fries in these Irish nachos, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that, especially when you have a fork to do your bidding.  I love the redundancy of cheese and sour cream.  It's like wearing belts and suspenders, or so I've heard.

This last one's a little blurry, but it's still easy to see that this is a chunk of breaded and fried chicken slathered with a gut gouging combination of hot sauce and bleu cheese.  By the time we got to these, I think the beers had made their way to my dome piece, giving them the appearance that they were going out of style (get it? I ate them really fast).  The murderous pairing of all of this processed goodness with upwards of twelve beers racked up a major digestive debt that I was left to settle the next day, and although I enjoyed it at the time, I am once again left wondering why I ate this.  Buen provecho.

*Before you comment on how John Stockton was the cheapest player in the NBA, I already know, and I don't care.  As the all-time assist leader, his generosity with the rock cancels out any cheapness.  Eat it.