Jan 2, 2008: The day I messed with Big Texas
Wednesday, January 2, 2008 | Labels: American Merchandiser, Big Texas, Cloverhill, Frank Drebin, GC, hyperbole, Jesus Christ, vending machine | 1 comments |
It was roughly 4:52 p.m. ET on the second day of the two thousand and eighth year after the birth of the world's most famous handyman, Jesus Christ. Well, from about 4:53 p.m. ET on, my life is now divided into two parts: BBT and now After Big Texas (ABT).
After more than three months of speculation, adulation and infatuation I entered my George Washington into the second floor vending machine in 220o West Cypress Creek's vendetaria and asked the local handyman (GC) which number to press on the unlabeled row with the Texas-sized cinnamon roll.
"C2," said GC
I pressed the appropriate buttons.
I watched the Big Texas drop.
I heard it hit the vending machine reservoir.
I asked, "how do I eat this?"
"I usually tear the bag open along the side, using it as sort of a holding apparatus. And then I just go right into it," GC said.
"Should I microwave it?," I asked.
"I just eat it as is," GC said.
And like the doe-eyed 16-year-old I was many a nights ago on the floor of my bedroom with an unlucky coed, I clumsily bit into the cinnamon roll with 22 grams of fat (6 saturated; 6 trans), 61 grams of carbs (33 sugar), a surprising 470 mg of sodium and six grams of muscle-building protein.
What happened next? An orgy of eggs, cinnamon, flour, hydrogenated oil, cocoa, corn starch, guar gum and 39 other flavors -- natural and artificial -- told my mouth, "mouth, you've masticated just about every animal, but this, this is what separates us from orangutans." This is what it's like to be in love for the first time. This is what it's like to be Frank Drebin.
And I did feel like Frank Drebin. People stared at me as I returned to my desk eating the Big Texas. Heads turned, nostrils inhaled, desperately trying to capture the scent emanating from the plastic wrapper in my hands and people stopped to ask, "how is it?"
Like the star QB asked by Erin Andrews, "how does this win feel?", my only response was, "it feels wonderful, I'd like to thank the lord, Jesus Christ."
That was a weird moment, not being Christian, and all.
Surely, you wonder, "but Eric, this is just a cinnamon roll from a vending machine, you must be speaking in hyperbole."
My response: What the hell does hyperbole mean?
So where do I go from here? Do I add the Big Texas as a staple of my diet? Probably not, considering its alarming lack of Vitamin C (0%).
Do I enjoy one on occasion, maybe as a form of celebration for office accomplishments? Probably not, either, considering I don't really accomplish anything.
So what do I do? I'll tell you what I do. I've emailed Cloverhill and the American Merchandiser people about interviews regarding the Big Texas. I'm going to ask questions. I'm going to poke and prod. I'm going to figure out just what exactly makes the Big Texas tick. Basically, I'm going to ask it, "are you OK?" After all, it worked that night on the bedroom floor, 10 years ago.