Texadelphia Cuts the Mustard

I was so in the mood for some cheap wings and waffle fries the other day; so I drove my car on over to the Pluckers on Greenville, parked among all of Mom and Dad's hand-me-downed BMWs with SMU bumper stickers, and what the fuck, Pluckers is totally closed on Wednesdays at lunch? Stupid. So, I told their empty restaurant to suck one and walked across the parking lot to Texadelphia to get a cheese steak. It's really not that big of a craving jump from wings to cheese steak, anyway. It's like one move up in the Want to Overeat quadrant and two moves down in the Want My Mouth to Challenge My Stomach Lining to a Battle of Wills quadrant. Easy.

I ordered a beef cheese steak and a drink, and I happily wolfed down almost all of my friend's queso (Two seconds earlier, my friend: "Will you eat some of this if I order it? There's just no waaaaay I could finish the whole thing." Me: "Sure, I'll have a little"). Whatever. She offered. If you open the door like that, you can't be mad at the other person for eating the crap out of what you already admitted you couldn't finish alone. It's a rule. You can scowl all you want, but you've only got yourself to blame. I simply have no patience for pussyfooting around food. If you're that stupidly skinny bitch who's all, "I shouldn't eat this. It's going to make me fat," I'm gonna steal your food, and as I scarf it down I'm gonna tell you that you do look pretty tubby in that size 0; I mean, didn't you used to be a size 00? You're really letting yourself go.

Anyway, mustard blend. The mustard blend is a delicious blend of over 300 imported mustards (most of them from Delphia)—it's otherworldly. It's the reason you come to Texadelphia at all. (Because we all know it's not the name. Were there a bunch of execs in a sweaty room with a whiteboard crossing off the list one by one: Iowaburg? No, that's ridiculous. What've we got left here—Kentuckolulu. Okloit, New Mexicorleans, Poop Sandwich Store, Pennsylquerque. Texadelphia! That's it!).

Go to Texadelphia. You could order a cheese steak—or you could just chug a bottle of mustard blend and call it a day. Either way results in a happy coma.