I just got back from Moe's, an establishment that sells those heart-bullets they call "burritos"; those bricks that make you break out in a cold sweat when you heft them and realize that within about twenty minutes your weight will be increased by exactly that much. Moe's is also one of those places whose managers make the morose teenagers who work for them chant things, in this case, "wakadaMOOOOOOE'S", which, by your fifth visit, you realize is boredteenspeak for "Welcome to Moe's". Why on earth anyone wants to institute such rituals is beyond me, inless you just chalk it up to general managerial-class idiocy. It's certainly anathema to the teens, for whom it's akin to being forced to read their poem aloud in creative writing class. Except there's always one kid employee who belts out the call with gusto and is probably a drama major or in Junior Achievement and will undoubtedly grow up to be a manager, thus perpetuating this vile spiral and contributing to mires like the current financial crisis. Somehow. Anyways, the climactic moment of this anecdote is when I order a burrito, the feral adolescent who waits on me, says "all the way?" and I respond "sure."  The kid perks right up. "I knew you were an all the way guy!"

Oh me. Is it written all over my ample fa├žade that I'm an All The Way Guy? That when I belly up to the dinner table, I can be counted on not to push myself away until it has been reduced to a random scattering of gristle pieces, mahogany splinters and china shards?That when I show up in a buffet line, the people behind me start pulling out their cell phones and GPS-ing other area eateries? Ah well. I suppose there are worse things to be known for.