When I lived in Manhattan Beach, as the token tubby pale guy among the beautiful people, there was a Fatburger a five minute drive from my apartment. I'd order up a burger and wander out while they were cooking it, over to the 7-Eleven just down the road. By the time I got back, my burger was ready and I'd get to make a monsterous pig out of myself. That was the perfect meal: a Fatburger and 32 ounces of Slurpee. That was the way to spend an evening.

It's what I did instead of having a girlfriend.