The Golden Arches shone brightly in the night sky like an emergency beacon, as Adrien Brody waddled desperately towards his local 24-hour McDonald's at 4:30am. His bulbous, milky white cankles spilled over the sides of his socks, and his drooping back tits gently swayed from side to side as he walked, clearly visible through the strained material of the discarded industrial bin bag he had been reduced to wearing.
Brody squeezed his bulk sideways through the door and lurched inexorably onwards. He caught his breath for a minute, resting his gut on the counter-top, studying the backlit menu with piggy, black eyes set into a remarkably fleshy brow.
He started to growl; a bass, rumbling noise, quiet at first, but ever increasing in volume. The sound rose up through his monstrous belly and flowed like a foghorn blast from his mouth, jowls vibrating and flecks of spittle flying indiscriminately in all directions. As the roar reached its zenith he threw his head back and bellowed: "FILET-O-FISH."
The terrified McDonald's operative cowered in horror behind the till, pregnant with dread and mouth agape in revulsion at the sight of a super morbidly obese Adrien Brody standing askance in front of her. Sallow faced, she handed him the filet-o-fish. Brody watched her every move, a line of dribble escaping his lips.
He retreated to a table, unwrapped the source of his desires with palpable urgency, opened his cavernous maw and began to feed...
No comments:
Post a Comment