Plethoric are the ways to die. Multitudinous are the methods we’ve invented to flop into the afterlife all bloated and gassy, hearts clenched and eyeballs wobbly and colons feeling like they’re being eaten alive by 10 million constipated fire ants.
Whoops, did I just give it away? Did I just reveal the most patriotic, all-American, middle-finger-to-God–and-to-science way to croak? I might have. Do you know what it is? No, it’s not some NRA member’s Open Carry semi-automatic going off in his pocket at a Trump rally (that’s the second best way).
Before you answer, a question: Are you not crazily busy this holiday season? Far too busy to concern yourself with confusing things like basic nutrition, fundamental self-respect, genuine concern for the planet and your children or the aforementioned infuriated colon?
Of course you are. Capitalism is counting on it.
America didn’t get the version with the little toxic meat-like things. Probably saving THAT one for Valentine’s Day.
Thank morbidly obese Jesus for Pizza Hut, and it’s new, holiday-ready Gift O’ Gastrointestinal Pain/Colorectal Cancer, AKA the Triple Treat Box!
Admit it: Did you not gasp aloud when you saw that promotional picture up there? Did your blood not instantly swoon in arterial-clogged delight? Did your heart not seize in anticipation? You saw it right: That’s two medium pizzas, a massive slab of artificially flavored breadsticks and a colossal chocolate-chip cookie the size of an ambulance steering wheel. It’s a heavily processed, gluten/fat/carb/salt/sugar neutron bomb of holiday awesome, all wrapped in enough cardboard to house a family of Syrian refugees and all for the low-low cost of only $20. So you know it must be delicious.
Am I right? Are we not geniuses? Is America not the undisputed master of coming up with new, fantastically lethal hunks of gastronomic self-loathing, just in time for the holidays? You’re damn right we are. Hell, top off your TTB with a round of large triple whip double pump pumpkin spice caramel lattes, and watch your holiday dreams die.
Sparkle! I mean sparkle. Obviously.
(PS: Here’s how the Triple Treat Box actually looks, down here in scary, non-Photoshopped reality. Yum! Save a bite for Santa!)