It’s Thursday. We all know what that means. HOT LUNCH IN THE CAF!! Best day of the week if you ask me. See, I’m a bit of a foodie and when it comes lunchtime, I don’t care much for gay-ass Lunchables or daddy’s girl PB and J’s. I need something fresh. Something warm. Something I haven’t had in awhile. I need hot lunch. I need Quimbie’s.

I’ve got an ungodly hankerin’ for a basket of some of those famous Quimbie’s Q-Balls©. Q-Balls© are the ultimate nummies. Fist-sized balls of mayonnaise, deep fried, then drizzled in silky smooth Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing and deep fried again.  Top it all off with a little more ranch and a handful of glitter so they look as magical as they taste. I can hear them now, calling my name like a tantalizing Siren on the shores of of a rocky coast, luring me in like so many doomed travelers about to be turned into horny toads. God, all I want is some of those warm Q-Balls© in my mouth pussy motherfucking stat. I want to gurgle and gargle and gaggle on those Q-Balls© until that glittery amalgamation of mayo and ranch sprays out my nose holes.

And I would literally cut my own dick off for a taste of one of Quimbies yum yum Quimbadillas©. It’s the south-of-the-border sensation that will leave your taste buds growing mustaches and smuggling heroin in their buttholes. These dilla’s don’t fuck around. They are like an honest housewife who spends her afternoons vacuuming and sippin’ lemonade by the pool while David, the pool boy cleans the filters. Sure, she’s thought about taking him into the pool room, peeling off his Tommy Bahama bathing trunks and squeezing out a fresh batch of chlorine clam chowder onto his 8 and a half inch pool sifter, but she knows that if she gets caught she can wave goodbye to all her pilates and horseback riding money. Janice is too smart for that. She can just as easily fantasize about David’s pipe cleaner pounding it out in the summer heat while she fiddles her lima bean and squats over the gear shift of her BMW M3 in the carpool line waiting for the boys to get out of school.

Oooo Wee! And what about one of those succulent Quimbie’s Quapple Turnover Quassant©. So succulent. Ambrosial. Swear on my momma’s life, I would rather have a Quapple Turnover Quassants© than get an hour long blow-jeezy from a mermaid. Even if she lets me Jackson Pollock all over her sea shell titties. They’re. that. good. My urethra is literally salivating just thinking about it. With that outer sarcophagus of buttery flaky crust injected with hot applicious magma, it’s everything I love about America in one bite and none of the things I don’t love. No more income tax. No more bonuses for CEO’s after they just received bail-outs from tax payer’s money. No more Chik-Fil-A being closed on Sundays. No more having to shove my one-hitter into my rectum every time I run a stop sign. No more getting accused of sexual harrassment for popping some shorty the corndog surprise (up to the second knuckle) at work. No more Dubstep. Imagine America without all those things. Now imagine that America inside your mouth. That’s the Quimbie’s Quapple Turnover Quassant© for ya.

Whatever today may hold, whether Q-Balls© or Quimbadillas© or Quapple Turnover Quassant©, I got my 5 dollar bill. I got my tray. I’m ready. Line up single-file, bring on the Quimbie’s and stay the fuck out of my way. It’s Thursday. It’s time for Hot Lunch.