I went to the band fundraiser at Pizza Ranch today, and I am ten pounds heavier as a result. The deal is this: ten freshmen get suckered into waiting tables, a junior wears a chicken suit and stands out in the cold to try and wave people into the restaurant, and Pizza Ranch gives the band 20% of the night's profits. Those of us who are neither a freshman nor Clint get to come, shell out eight bucks, and spend the night hovering around the buffet.

If you don't live in the northern Midwest, you probably have no idea what a Pizza Ranch is. I pity you. Pizza Ranch is the most delectable chain eatery since Wendy's. Eating Pizza Ranch food is like getting married; you love it, it loves you, and you will end up fat by the time it's over. The place puts nicotine in the cheesesticks and traces of heroin in the dessert pizza to maximize addiction. Charter a plane already and get your ass out here; you don't know what you're missing.

There you have it. Band makes money, Clint wears a chicken suit, Midwesterners have something to lord over coastal people (fuck you and your bistros--our Italian restaurants have cowboy hats on the walls), and Allison is 468 pounds. Everybody's happy.