The Meal of All Meals

Updated: Aug 30, 2020

We marched towards the elementary school playground, smelling like we just walked out of Pineapple Express. The moon lit our path as we made our way across the asphalt. Four paper bags in hand, we tracked the dissolving white sidelines of the basketball court, our Rainbow flip-flops scuffling to stay on our plodding feet. The steps on the play structure were ambitious.





Catching our breath halfway and lobbing encouragement at each other, we continued until our heads thrusted above the clouds. The panorama of the desolate world below us which just twelve hours before saw children running around yelling, scraping their knees, and deservedly bawling, took our remaining breaths away.

“Here?” Chris asked, preoccupied with finding the most comfortable position.

“Yes,” I concurred.

We had climbed our Everest. As high as we could go.

We ripped through the takeout wrapping paper, dispersing our cornucopia of gluttony, gazing out from the top our watchtower. Rustling leaves, snapping branches, and other specters of our hyperactive senses would be quelled from our perch. Twenty feet away, the results of the last oversized tic-tac-toe match captured my attention. I imagined two brilliant minds battling to exhaustion. Professor X vs Magneto. The legendary battle must have seen the tide turning every which way as each competitor sought to wholly dismantle the other's inventive strategy turn after turn.

But wait...there were six Os and three Xs. How was that even possible? Children are incredibly feebleminded. Why do we like having them again?

My eyes wandered back to our feast. Twenty beautiful dollars worth of Jack In The Box. A crumpled Andrew Jackson hurriedly passed through the drive-through window. Spicy chicken sandwiches. No mayo. Sourdough Jacks. No mayo. Fries. Chicken tenders. With tartar sauce, fight me. And who could forget the crème de la crème to put all crème to shame: two tacos for 99 cents. And we had four orders. That's four delicious tacos per stomach. For four dollars. Pay no mind that the meat was half oats. That's healthy and vegetarian...right? Who cares! We were still in our prime. In college. Invincible. And we got no fuckin' mayo.

Chris and I dove in head first as if we hadn't already had dinner with a large group at a "respectable" restaurant. We played a beautiful symphony with our orchestra of lip smacking, finger licking, wrapper crinkling, teeth gnashing, and throat clearing, fully crescendoing into our last bites, dripping with packets of delectable hot sauce, until we collapsed as if our souls had escaped their earthly vessels.

With empty wrappers strewn around us like rose petals on a bed, we laid there waiting for the sweet release of death. This was it. We've achieved pure bliss. The meal of all meals.

“More?” Chris asked, absentmindedly feeling around his kangaroo pocket for the half-finished joint.

“Yes,” I concurred.

We...were high. As high as we could go.

Tropical Plant