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So, I'm at this fancy restaurant, right? The kind where the waiter talks about the specials, and I nod like I understand what an amuse-bouche is. And then, he hits me with, "Are you ready to order, sir?" Now, I'm sweating bullets because I haven't even decided on a Netflix show for the evening, let alone what I want to consume for the next hour. And then there's that awkward dance when the waiter is staring at you like you're holding the nuclear launch codes, and you're desperately scanning the menu like it's written in hieroglyphics. I finally blurt out something, and he nods approvingly like I just cracked the Da Vinci code. I'm thinking, "Great, I ordered the chicken, but my soul is having a midlife crisis.
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You ever think about that age-old question, "What would be your last meal if you were on death row?" I mean, talk about pressure cooking, right? I'd be standing there in my chef's hat, looking at the menu like it's a culinary confessional. "Forgive me, chef, for I have sinned, it's been 30 years since my last confession... and I'd like the lobster bisque." I don't get it, though. If you're on death row, shouldn't the last meal be the one that takes the longest to eat? Like, imagine ordering a whole lobster, and you're there with the bib, cracking claws, sucking out the brains. The executioner's just tapping his foot like, "Can we get on with this? I've got a beheading at 3.
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I'm all for fast food, but can we talk about the existential crisis that comes with ordering at a drive-thru? You're sitting there, and the voice in the box is like, "Welcome to Fast Burger, can I take your order?" And suddenly, it's like you're auditioning for a role in a blockbuster movie. I find myself overthinking it, trying to impress the speaker with my decisiveness. "Uh, yeah, I'll have a number three with extra pickles, hold the onions, add bacon, but not too crispy, and can I get a side of the sauce? No, the other sauce. You know what, just surprise me." I feel like I'm ordering my last meal again, and the car behind me is honking like I'm negotiating world peace.
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Have you ever noticed how existential food labels have become? I picked up a bag of chips the other day, and it said, "Life is short, eat dessert first." Really, bag of chips? Are you my therapist now? I'm just trying to enjoy a snack, not reevaluate my entire life. And then there's that ominous message on the bottom of the soda can: "Please recycle. You can make a difference." Now, I'm standing there, holding a Dr. Pepper, feeling like I'm saving the planet one carbonated beverage at a time. It's like, "Sure, I'll recycle this can, but can you recycle my failed dreams too, Mr. Can?
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