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It’s the second week of summer camp at the Lake Wohali Recreational Enclosure and for the ninth breakfast in a row you’ve grabbed nearly five portions' worth of tater tots and nothing else. You’ll lose your mind when you realize they’re just bite-sized hash browns, but that day will come a long time from now. Today the overcooked shredded potato is hot and crispy all the way through, as though the camp chef has given up on even pretending he gives a shit. You pocket the remaining three portions and go ask the head counselor for something to drink. He pours you a cup from the water jug from last night, totally unaware that the younger, more hormonal counselors have been filling the water jugs with coconut rum sold to them by the camp chef, then fucking each other raw dog in the bushes. You don’t know any of this, and can barely taste the rum on top of the overly sweet and tangy fruit punch as you cram a fistful of potato in your toothy preteen mouth.
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It’s 3:30 AM on prom night and you’re sitting in a hotel room you didn’t pay for with the girl you didn’t ask. She passes you a sickly sweet and tart drink that tastes like a watermelon-flavored Jolly Rancher, and the more you drink, the less you see her as a chubby disappointment from gym class. The virgin boner pressed against your tighty whiteys has enough potential energy to flick a quarter 30 feet, and in an effort to relieve the pressure you offer her a bag of mini corn dogs your mom packed in case you got hungry. She is not impressed. You optimistically pull out your own mini corn dog in an attempt to be brazen, and before you know it she is on top of you. You both attempt to maneuver your penis into her, thrusting blindly into the folds of thigh meat, but her girth well exceeds your length, and you are unsuccessful. Classical mechanics wins again. You die three days later, a virgin.
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Your friends came over, not because they like you, but because you have a ton of video games. In an effort to impress them you spend a half hour making your favorite dish, chili cheese nachos topped with soggy jalapenos, but when you pop your head in the living room to ask, “Snacks, fellas?” you are ignored for neither the first nor the last time. Defeated, you raid the fridge and mix squirt, cranberry juice, and what you think is grape soda and run to your mom’s room to cry it out. Hey, Jeremy, maybe all that crying is why you don’t have any friends in the first place. Grow a dick, kid.

You are an orangutan in a business suit. In the late 90s you were the mascot for Tang, but since that cocksucker John Glenn drank that shit in space, you’ve been out of a job. Down on your luck, and an orangutan, you drown your sorrows nightly in an ironically cruel combination of orange vodka, triple sec, and orange drink. Every few waking hours, you rail a line of Tang, letting the sickly sour postnasal drip pool in your throat before you hack up another blood-tinged orange loogie. While you're slumped against a wall in downtown Toronto, a kindly Canadian offers you the remains of his lunch. But alas, you're an orangutan and cannot stomach jalapeno poppers. You eat them anyway and diarrhea into a fountain.Another place to eat food:The Worst Restaurant in the World