I really admire Heart Attack Grill’s business plan.
But that’s only because I recently learned about the owner’s backstory.
See, the dude who started it (Jon Basso) is a scorned ex-gym founder who got told off by a fast food restaurant (you might know of them – “In-N-Out”) for naming his fitness locale, ironically, something too similar to their own. Angry and upset that an anti-health joint should win over health, he adopted a sardonic “if ya can’t beat ‘em” mentality and started up his own anti-health eatery: a place where you come in and purposely try to commit fat-icide by consuming as much mass as you can, all sheathed in grease, sugars, fat, and sodium. They’ve got nurses outfits. You have to wear a patient gown. If you don’t finish your meal, the nurses spank you. Wheelchairs are available. The whole nine tons. And speaking of tons, there’s even a scale – so you can weigh in like a hog at a fair.
And, as you may’ve guessed…the fattest asshole gets celebrated.
So, anyway, HAG is what I thought of when I saw this new KFC “double down dog”.
A phallic mystery meat amalgamation (AKA hot dog) wrapped in globs of greased up bird meat that have been fried (AKA chicken tenders). And the reason I thought of Heart Attack’s owner was that, in a way, fast food’s kinda starting to make myocardial infarctions… to go. Which makes sense, right? I mean, sure, the WalMart demographic’s proud enough of their gluttony to showcase it in public. But my guess is that for many, many more, they just wanna indulge it in the privacy of their home, on their couch, from which they order Gilbert Grape to go out and order it for ‘em. I mean, if I’m a fat ass, I don’t wanna get dressed up and sit in public and be on display like a carnie. Do you? No, I want to enjoy the latest most unhealthy thing there is and eat it in darkened solitude while watching my stories on the sofa that’s somehow shrunk in the past year. Let me eat my double chin dog in peace, goddammit.
Which, incidentally, looks like this:
Fascinating. Looks like a still from a film belonging to a yet to be invented underground subsection of porn – a genre where people who have been diagnosed with a smorgasbord of STDs are all having sex with each other. Note: if I’m wrong and STD smut actually exists… please don’t tell me. Never. Not even a hint.
But what I do wonder is how pissed Heart Attack’s owner (seeing as he got the shaft from a to-go shake n’ burger joint to begin with) would be to see such decadence as this to-go on a far larger scale. Especially if it paralleled his bizz plan, without infringing on it. That way, he can’t sue me when I finally manifest this fantastic idea that will earn me millions. Actually, given the fact that he readily admits he’s ready to see gluttons hurry up and die and that’s why he started this place to begin with, he’d probably effing help me build it from the ground up.
Man after my own heart. Literally.
(Cue to montage of us having a girly sleepover, painting each other’s nails, me not being able to braid his hair because: bald, and then putting purposely unsturdy chairs in the dining area to record and set to the 1st movement from Mozart’s “Eine Klein Nachtmusik”. And upload it. To Youtube. For money. To put toward my new restaurant chain he’s helping me build:
“Stent-N-Out, anyone?”