The Black Sheep
FR E wh E... en like yo th ud ec on os ’t t o pa y a f yo ft ur er b yo rac u l ke os t e.
• a college newspaper that’s actually about college •
Volume 8, Issue 10 • 3/20/13 - 3/27/13
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Fear and Loathing in Olive Garden Zach Wyrzykowski wrote this We were somewhere near the bar, at the edge of the restaurant, when the food lust began to take hold. I was shoveling my fifth meatball into my mouth, when the room began to spin. I remember saying something like, “I’m stuffed. Are you going to eat that?” Suddenly, there was a crash and a waiter carrying a tray filled with our half-eaten dishes tumbled to the ground due to the sheer weight of our refuse. I decided to take inventory of our present delicacies. Laid before us like a gleaming city of sultry herbs, noodles, and meats were two plates of bruschetta, thirty-five sautéed four-cheese shrimp, two sheets of lasagna, three empty parmesan cheese shakers, and a whole spread of edibles rich in carbohydrates, stewed meats, boiled noodles, steaming soups, and bottomless breadsticks, and salad. Of these last two—we simply could not run out. As God as our witness, we had tried. We also had a bottle of chardonnay, an empty bottle of pinot grigio, and a broken bottle of merlot. Not that we needed all of that for the meal, but once you start an Olive Garden binge the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the breadsticks. There is nothing in the world more helpless, irresponsible, and depraved than a man in the depths of a breadstick binge. At that moment a waiter walked up and asked how we were doing. I leapt up, sat him down next to me, and began to recount the tale of how the man sitting across from me had come to this country from the depths of sacred Mexico to find an education in the great wilderness of Michigan. I looked at this man, this server of men, and asked if he was prejudice before offering him a breadstick. He confusedly took the breadstick and walked off with it. I knew he wouldn’t eat it, the thieving bastard. I missed him already. He smelled like marinara sauce and olive oil, although that scent could have merely been my upper lip. I dove into my chicken parmesan with furious gusto, wanting only to eat and to forget the sounds of laughter, smooth piano music, and my comrade asking how we were going to pay for this. He simply didn’t understand that this was more than a meal—it was a salute to the success of Italian Americans, entrepreneurs and high-end restaurants for the collegiate masses. It was a battle in the evergrowing war against anorexia, public image, and the stingy assholes living within their means. I prepared to down some merlot, but instead reached for the chardonnay to preserve what little class had managed to cling to us through this never-ending orgy of chow. Sipping delicately, I then released a belch that could’ve shaken the walls of Valhalla, had we been Norse. Of course, we weren’t Norse; we were broke.
Picking Up Girls in Class
The server returned, still holding the breadstick. I knew the question he would ask. He was terrified though, for he knew the answer had to be, and would always be yes. His mouth opened slowly, and the phrase, “Did we save room for dessert?” left his lips like a au jus soaked lamb thrown into the lions’ den. Knowing that even looking at the dessert menu would send us both into another food lust from which none could return, I closed my eyes and feverishly ordered myself tiramisu with a piece of chocolate mousse cake for my Mexican friend. The waiter audibly thanked God
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Whoever said OTPHJs were only limited to high-school classrooms never read this guide.
Ben Bailey asks questions to drunken people, amusement and sexual bartering ensues.
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before dashing away from the table like a frightened house cat. It was now that we began the world-ending debate of how to pay for the feast. My Mexican friend insisted that I pay since it was my idea to dine at this last bastion of affordable fine Italian, but I countered, remarking that it was I who paid when we had gone to Chili’s. This dance of course was meaningless, a ritual that would end in the two of us casually walking out the door of this place, then making a mad dash across the parking lot to the Honda, leaving a message written in breadsticks on the table: IOU.
Ode to the Anonymous Dance Floor Grinder You bewitched us with your flailing chubby despite being creepy, short and stubby.
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