Maahk is a man who loves the foods.

Apr 302016

Maahk stumbles out of the cold, dark wood. He is naked. He is starving. His eyes search for a glowing screen but find none. Somewhere in the distance, he knows, there is a meal and a flick – and they will make him feel God Awful.

After a long slumber, God Awful Dinner And Movie Night is hitting the road in 2016!

Aug 182011

Well, Children of the Poo-Corn, it’s time for another entry, although I confess that if you’re looking for a review of a horrible meal you’re not going to get it here. For I, your humble eater, Maahk had…AN EXCELLENT MEAL! The meal in question took place at Three Monkeys Cafe on James St in Northeast Philadelphia, just down the road from Holy Family University and directly across the street from Torresdale Station. You city dwellers have no excuses – just hop on the El and it’ll dump you squarely onto the Three Monkeys’ outdoor tree-canopied patio. A finer meal will be had in no other restaurant in Northeast Philly… Seriously, this is the only serious restaurant in Northeast Philly. Five Guys, Wawa and the Dunkin Donuts/gas station hybrid are not serious restaurants.

I sallied into Three Monkeys on the warm, dry evening of August 17, 2011, with two fellow diners who shall remain nameless in order to protect the guilty. I’ll call them Mom and Dad. After spending most of early dusk swearing at the evening news with a beer in one hand a Bud Lite in the other, it seemed right to forgo cooking and take a nice meal out, so “Dad,” “Mom” and I packed into Dad’s GMC Yukon Denali, one of General Motors’ more upscale Earth-rapists, and drove the mile and a half to this quaint, tucked-away bar and restaurant.

The low lighting and gilded fixtures along with the burgundy colored walls and curtains lend a certain Victorian quality to the indoor portion of Three Monkeys. Outside is equally nice, yet nothing like the indoors in either style or atmosphere. Diners needn’t worry about having the hot summer sun baring down on them as trees and canopies shade the entire terrace. Our party opted to remain indoors as we had gotten there just as the outdoor portion had filled up. And while there were enough old people inside to qualify Three Monkeys for God’s Waiting Room for the 19114 zip code, the atmosphere suited our purposes just fine. It was so good, in fact, that we barely noticed the occasional squawks, cackles and misunderstandings of the chronically hard of hearing. “Grace?! She died 30 years ago!”

I started off with a Guinness, naturally. Meat has been unkind to me lately, and I to it, so I opted for the next worst thing: Cheese. The Grilled Chimp-an-Cheese sandwich is not overly greasy and surprisingly light (in your hand) compared to grilled cheese sandwiches I’ve had in other gastro-pubs. Overflowing with American Cheddar, Provolone and Mozzerella, it was so tasty that I made quick work of little bastard. The salad that accompanied it, a wiser option over heavy, unhealthy fries or chips, was also a little more upscale than you’ll find in most restaurants round these parts. No iceberg lettuce in sight – spinach, romaine, sliced carrots, tomato and cucumber, all of which I ate raw and unadorned. It was a nice segue into the cholesterol laden sandwich which was soon to stop up my…well, everything.

While my dish was quite good, I couldn’t help feeling a bit covetous of the two other meals on the table. “Mom” ordered the Tuscan wrap, which is grilled chicken, lettuce, tomato and parmesan dressing wrapped in your choice of plain or spinach tortilla. It looked quite heavenly and, unless your making one yourself, I don’t know of many restaurants in NE Philly that serve up this kind of fare. While I didn’t sample the wrap, I can guess accurately, I think, that the best dish on the table was “Dad’s” chicken quesadilla. I helped myself to a slice and believe you me, you’ll want to try this when you make your own trip to Three Monkeys.

Also, I have to mention the house beer: Horny Monkey Ale. It’s a tasty red beer that goes down very smoothly – and you’ll never guess you’ve had three until suddenly you’re ordering a slice of cheesecake…and another Horny Monkey Ale.

The cheesecake was standard fare. Nothing special, but it hit the spot…that spot, just over a little, next to the left ventricular whatsit. Right there! By chasing the grilled cheese with a piece of cheesecake, I think I’ve actually INDUCED lactose intolerance on a body which, I’ve always felt, could handle the rich creamy goodness remarkably well. The sleepless night, punctuated by sharp abdominal pangs and cacophonous abdominal geshreeyehing may have converted me to almond milk for good.

While there is no movie to accompany this entry per se, I did spend the small hours watching a delightful British documentary series called Stephen Fry in America. Worth a watch. And it goes well with gastro-insomnia and a hot cup of chamomile.

Jul 312011

We’re a bit behind the times…or ahead of them. I don’t know. It’s too damn hot and the rent’s too damn high.

In May, in the year of Our Dark Lord Satan, Two Thousand Eleven, your faithful gluttons tramped into the Nifty Fifty’s on Grant Avenue, again in Northeast Philadelphia, for a little light refreshment and heavy burgers. Joining me, Curdo, Dreams and Niquish was Don Angle, who noted how relaxed my driving was. A little inside, I know. (Note: The name of the restaurant – Nifty Fifty’s – is possessive. I asked the fellow behind the counter if I could speak with Mr. Fifty, but he didn’t get it.)

But we’re not here to talk about that. We’re hear to talk food. Yes, I had a standard, run-of-the-mill cheeseburger. Yes, I chased down the burger with the artery-clogging “Reesey”* Peanut Butter Cup milkshake – just to fill in any gaps left by said burger. Yes, I enjoyed my meal with a Passion Fruit soda. Yes, I asked for a Nifty Fifty’s coffee mug as a souvenir to be added to our bill, and No, I didn’t get it because the lady just done forgot. The meal had the same effect all of our meals have – a full tummy, stretching the stomach’s normal capacity to the point that it becomes accustomed to hosting lots of food not just on one occasion, but on EVERY occasion, inviting more and more overeating one meal at a time.

After our big meaty dinner, we waddled into the parking lot. It was a warm spring evening. The sun had gone down. It was real nice, even though we were in Northeast Philadelphia and not far from the Boulevard. Real nice. After managing to bend my body into a borrowed Honda without wetting myself or involuntarily voiding my innards, we headed back to Curdo’s place in South Philly for the movie: Death Wish 3.

Here’s what you need to know about Death Wish 3. Charles Bronson thinks chicken is good. Charles Bronson likes chicken.

…that and he blows away a bunch of people…

…that and cities in the 70s and 80s resembled the futuristic urban landscapes in an Octavia Butler novel…or the first four Police Academy movies…and the sixth Police Academy movie.

But not the seventh Police Academy movie.

Or the fifth.

(Read books, jokers.)

*That horrible bastardization is my only complaint with the establishment.

Also, sorry for the long absence. More to come shortly. Promise.

Apr 252011

In my Catholic family, Easter is a big deal. Like most American Christians, we don our Sunday finest and spend the day with family and food. Lots of food. In case you don’t know, Easter is the day we celebrate the Resurrection of the Risen Bunny, who is seated on the right-hand serving tray of the Father, who died for our anorexia, was shot, skinned and eaten. He will come again to judge the health nuts and their arugula, and His Kingdom will end by the slow death of obesity and diabetes. Amen.

It is in this Easter spirit that I chose to take April’s Gadamn excursion to Golden Corral. It was kind of like that time way back when that dude passed out loaves and fishes that seemingly came from nowhere. It all just kept coming and coming and coming. And the faithful turned out in droves!

GC is another buffet, which now make up half of our culinary misadventures. I arrived a little earlier than my compatriots, so I had a chance to observe some of the poor early birds leaving the establishment before the sun even set. From my parked car I observed a rather rotund man stumbling out of the Corral. Half way through the parking lot, he stopped dead in his tracks, belched, and proceeded onward to his minivan. The fact that he had to stop in order to orally release his pent up dinner joy heartened me. It was as if he thought to himself, “Wait. I wanna get this right on the first try. BUUURRRRP!!!” It told me that my high expectations for GC were totally warranted.

Once inside, I found Curdo, Dreams, Niqueesh, Don Angle and approximately fifty other people waiting IN A CORRAL for their turn to hand over money for the GC experience. The high school kids behind the register seemed to be doing well enough under the pressure, although that’s probably because they weren’t tasked with the job of clearing away plates from tables, plates stacked four, five or six high and full of half gnawed chicken bones and taco residue. But, hey. In 21st Century America, a job’s a job. It ain’t 2005, so no looking down on the grunt workers from here on out, dig?

Anyway, the five of us wasted no time hitting the buffet for Round 1. My first trip yielded a large piece of rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes with turkey gravy, a piece of the Awesome Pot Roast, and a heaping helping of sweet potato casserole. The Awesome Pot Roast tasted like pot roast, so you’ve got a winner right there. It didn’t take forever to chew and it wasn’t in the least bit fatty. The only weird thing about the APR was that it crumbled as soon as the fork made contact with it. It just…peeled off in strands… Is meat supposed to do that by itself? The large hunk of Rotisserie Chicken was also quite tasty. Moist and delicious, I found it satisfying. My only beef with the chicken >snort< was that I couldn’t identify which part of the chicken it was. Breast, thigh, wing? No clue. The sweet potato casserole was also very tasty, but equally ambiguous. I assume it was SPC because that’s what it said on the sign above the serving tray, but there was no orange-brown color to it, so who knows? Maybe it was plane old stuffing. It sure tasted like it. I have to say, though, that the tastiest selection of Round 1 was the mashed potatoes with gravy. They tasted a lot like KFC mashed potatoes, which are always a winner with me. I’d be perfectly satisfied with a KFC meal made up entirely of their wonderful, salty, salty mashed taters. ROUND 2. I once subbed as a drummer for a band called Round 2. That band sucked more than a meal at CiCi’s (and my drumming didn’t help), but this was not the case with Round 2 at Golden Corral, let me tell you. Like most of the people at GC, I couldn’t get back to that buffet fast enough. For Round 2, I scored me some pepperoni pizza, macaroni and cheese, a slice of meatloaf and MORE mashed potatoes and gravy. The potatoes repeated their brilliant performance with a stunning encore. The mac and cheese was a little too runny for my taste, and the “cheese” had a powdery texture to it, which made me think that the line cook in charge of preparing it didn’t stir it into the butter long enough. The meatloaf, like the Awesome Pot Roast, was very tasty, but, as with the APR, it crumbled upon contact. I found myself scooping the bits onto my fork with my knife. The pizza wins runner-up to the mashed potatoes in the ranking of pre-dessert samplings at Golden Corral. It was far and away superior to anything I ate at CiCi’s and well ahead of any pizza I sold for fundraisers in high school. ROUND 3: Biscuit + Dessert = A Very Bloated Man. Ever see a very sad man in a plaid short-sleeve shirt with a very ample gut? No? Join us next time and keep your eyes on Old Maahk here. Round 3 is when I put myself over the edge. The biscuit looked like a Red Lobster biscuit, but wasn’t nearly as moist or zesty. It just kind of made a home in my innards and I doubt it will vacate anytime soon. (Poop joke, ho yeah!) For dessert I tried a chocolate cookie, a piece of chocolate cake, the “no sugar added” chocolate pudding and, finally, a bowl of chocolate soft serve. Have you puked yet? I didn’t, so MAN UP! Anyway, the chocolate cake was unremarkable. It was scrummy and chocolatey, so what more could I expect? The pudding didn’t do it for me – at all. The cookie was probably out of a packet of generic brand chocky cookies from Aldi. Topping everything off with soft serve was totally unnecessary and I may have suffered a stroke at the table while eating it. It was either a stroke or brain freeze. All I know is that I had a terrible pain in my head and no control over my facial muscles for about fifteen seconds. The meal at Golden Corral accomplished much of what we set out for here at Gadamn. The food didn’t taste half as bad as CiCi’s or Ruby, but it did make us feel terrible once each of us was tapped out. So I’ll call this one a rousing success. Many sighs and exhalations would follow…

Mar 282011

Of all the Gadamns, I looked forward to Cici’s Pizza Buffet the least. In fact, I actually looked backward, to Chicago Uno Grill, where a finer meal was never had…except at the Olive Garden, Ruby Buffet, Hooters and Red Lobster. For me, our sixth adventure into the depths of culinary hell ranks at the bottom of our experiences, although you’ll probably find some disagreement from the other Gadamners who joined me on the night of March 18 as we made our way to New Jersey – yes, BACK to New Jersey – for a night of flourescent, fatty self-abuse at Cici’s Pizza Buffet in Cherry Hill.

I love pizza. I really do. I think it’s one of the finer creations of the mind of man. You eat it with your hands, someone else makes it for you. They’ll even bring it to your doorstep if you ask. Less bombs and more pizza, that’s what I say! I used to think I’d eat pizza anytime, anyplace. Hell, the website for CiCi’s even boasts, “Almost too good to be true!” Well, thank goodness for little qualifiers.

The “pizza” at CiCi’s was such that it had me dreaming of Domino’s, a butter product I swore off long ago after a night of lonesome, tearful pizza bingeing. That night, I thought of being not with friends, but alone in a dark, hot living room in the middle of July, waiting for the doorbell to ring…somewhere round midnight. After our meal at CiCi’s, however, I found myself pining back to relatively fonder memories of the Domino’s after effects – dry mouth, heart burn, sleeplessness, dehydration, bloatedness. Such was the sight of this restaurant and the diners inside that these sensations seemed a welcome alternative.

Standing outside the establishment at about 8pm, waiting for cigarettes to be smoked, I found myself embracing – more like bear hugging – my own sense of cosmopolitan snobbery. I felt no shame about it, either. Curdo, Dreams, Niqueesh and I were probably the only patrons wearing pants with flies and buttons rather than elastic. It was a good feeling to feel better than everybody in that place because a place like CiCi’s invites you to be less by eating more and more and more. Pay less to be less. Go you. I felt no shame about it.

The shame, of course, would come later.

The cost of admittance was $5.99, a sum so affordable that I splurged and got a cup for an additional $2, which turned out to be quite a bargain because, for just a full third of the cost of the meal, I was able to have as many refills of Cherry Hill tap water as my kidneys could handle. Throw in the bridge toll to get us back to civilization and the evening cost me $12.43, the cheapest Gadamn of all, but still too much by far considering the quality of the food.

Back to that shame. Against every instinct, I stuffed myself with pizza, going to the buffet four or five times (I didn’t count) to collect little slices of runny – that’s RUNNY – greasy evil. I’ve stuffed my face shamelessly plenty of times, at least twice a week, for most of my adult life. But this was different and it was because of the other patrons and the restaurant itself. I was ashamed of sitting under lighting so white it appeared to be reflected off the surface of the moon, of paying to dine in a place with Cheez Whiz yellow walls and Mylie Cyrus music piped in for all the kids running around, dodging table and adults like obstacles in a fun house. (Although, I suppose that might be a good thing because they’ll need all the exercise they can get if they hope to live to see the inside of a high school). I wanted the smokey dankness of my favorite bar. I wanted the trendy air of a Philly gastropub. (Yes, a gastropub; I said it!) I wanted the hominess of my mother’s dining room, to be looking down into a plate of her addictive fried egg plant, chicken parm and a bowl of homemade rice pudding.

Go to CiCi’s and you’ll find there’s more ambiance in a purple plastic tunnel at Chuch E. Cheese’s.

So…CiCi’s wasn’t my favorite. Maybe it’s because all of the people who joined us on our last adventure couldn’t join us this time around. It was just the four of us: good company, to be sure, but a stark difference from the Red Lobster Extravaganza. Maybe it was the obvious cultural inferiority that kept those other dudes away. I guess they couldn’t handle all that pizza. After all, it takes a backbone to carry all that food around… So maybe some of our past adjunct Gadamners will join us next time at Golden Corral in Bensalem, the closest thing to a South Jersey township as you’ll find in Pennsylvania.

Mar 272011

The weather in Philadelphia on March 18, 2011, was really quite spectacular. I had taken a long walk through Worst Philly earlier in the day, the kind of walk I’ve been pining for all winter. It was fitting that it should happen on the eve of Spring. It got my allergies going, but it was a nice diversion. Besides, I wanted to get that hunger burn a little hotter for the evening’s anticipated feast.

The ivy-covered houses built during the Roaring Twenties – some crumbling, others tenderly tended – provided an agreeable landscape. The stroll also allowed me to satisfy a penchant of mine – observing parked cars, particularly Japanese models. (In case you’re interested, it was a great day for ’05 Sentras.) It was a perfect afternoon. The only thing that could have made it more perfect, despite the obvious contradiction in terms, was a cinematic experience equaled by none…except maybe Zardoz.

Speaking of diversions, I like a bad movie now and then: A silly romcom, a delightful romp, and inspirational flick with the obligatory crescendo of applause for the protagonist at the end. You know the kind, the ones where one person starts clapping slowly, then everyone else starts in, slowly, gravely rising to their feet as the soundtrack sweeps in. Cue the misty eyes! A dose of low-brow entertainment with car chases and gunshots and gratuitous violence can be a healthy thing once in a while. And that’s just what THE ROOM was – a healthy, heaping dose of poor quality, low-grade schlock.

The great thing about watching bad movies with friends (at least, the Gadamn crowd, that is) is that you can always make fun of them. Mercilessly. Now, I have to admit that I’m not as good at providing my own Rifftrax as others, particularly Curdough and Milton, for whom it is high art. They’re craftsmen. And THE ROOM is such an exercise in narcissism that it’s essentially a ninety minute bullseye for all sorts of wonderful scorn and mockery. Consider the plot holes, or the characters who appear and disappear without explanation. Or the tuxedoed football game. Or the singular mention of that lady’s breast cancer that is never revisited…or the gun-wielding drug dealer who is taken to jail from the roof under citizen’s arrest, said jail being located – presumably – two floors down…

The DVD cover claims that the movie is a “black comedy,” not the failed drama originally intended by the film’s director, writer and star, Tommy Wiseau. According to an anonymous detractor who worked on the film, it was never intended to be a comedy. You’ll do plenty of laughing, though, particularly during the Continue reading »

Feb 212011

February’s Gadamn excursion was everything a Gadamn ought to be: Friends, food, drink, a bit o’ the craic, gastro-intestinal misery, totally uncalled-for dessert, a few farts and a truly God Awful Movie if ever there was one: Zardoz. In addition to the usual gang of Curdo, Niquisha, Dreams and yours truly, Old Maahk, we were joined by our friends Jare, Banji, Snitcherz, Danly and Andyofughgodfame.

For the second month in a row, I was a little hesitant about our Gadamn destination. I’m a picky eater. I have a narrow personal menu that I stick to and I rarely stray from it. Suffice to say, sea food is not on that menu. So when Nikittles suggested Red Lobster for our next adventure, I took it in stride without feeling anything one way or t’other about it…at first. Then I found the menu online. And then the buzz about the biscuits started to follow me as I told others about our plans. Soon enough, by the one-week countdown leading up to Red Lobster, I was shuddering with anticipation at the prospect of a big plate of food and an all-out assault on a basket o’ biscuits. “Good God,” thought I, “I NEED FOOD!!!”

When we arrived at the restaurant we found that the joint was packed. I was amazed. Look at all these hungry fatties, methought. What sea has enough lobsters in it, what field enough cattle, what farm enough chickens, what Pillsbury plant enough biscuits, to feed these multitudes, packed in as they were like…sardines in a can? >chortle< My appetite seemed so unvanquishable that I wasn’t sure I could survive the wait. Curdo and I even staged a recon mission to neighboring Applebees, which was just as crowded. But with drinky and a bit of the craic, the wait passed easily enough. When we were finally seated, a full half-hour before we expected, we were pleasantly surprised that the staff had arranged for all nine of us to be seated at one table. The waiter, Quentin, an agreeable chap, smiled widely at the prospect of the tip that would surely flow his way from our buttery hands by evening’s end. The menu at Red Lobster, if you've never been, is rather robust. It took us all, it seemed, a little longer than usual to decide our poisons. I had been hemming and hawing all week on whether or not to order sea food. Like I said, I'm not a sea food person. But not to order sea food at Red Lobster seemed like a cop-out. And when it came time to decide, I chickened out. That is, I settled on the Cajun Chicken Linguini Alfredo! >guffaw< The menu offers two options: Half or Full. I ordered a full platter because it was only a dollar extra, but twice the calories. It was actually…pretty good. Even after a beer and a couple of those outrageous biscuits, I was still eager to sink my mandibles into that plate of pasta, chicken and cheesy goodness. The portion was so big, however, that I needed help from Danly, who good-naturedly broke his vegetarianism to help me finish off the plate. Alas, despite the fact that I was so hungry and that it took two of us to work on my dish, I still wasn’t able to clean it the way Jare cleaned his: spotless, not a drop of blood left over, and only the shell of his “surf” to indicate that any food had ever been there at all. By the end of our time at Red Lobster, the only disagreeable thing I felt was a gut full of dense, but surprisingly decent, food that had yet to be accompanied by our Satanic dessert choice of Entemann’s baked goods, which we acquired at the nearby Wawa. Back at Banji and Curdo’s we hunkered down for ZARDOZ. If you want some idea of what this flick was like, imagine if Star Trek had had a fourth season. I suspect that the filmmakers had all been on staff for the Trek season that never was, and were so bitter that they just went for it – ALL OF IT.

The movie opens with a horde of loin-clothed men running toward a large hovering head-craft which, after decreeing that “the gun is good” and “the penis is evil,” vomits an entire arsenal of rifles onto its worshipers. They are to use the rifles to purge the earth of all that the evil penises have wrought on the world. Sometimes a rifle ISN’T just a rifle. >snort< As for my hypothesis about ZARDOZ possibly having been an unused Star Trek script, I’ve got plenty of data to back me up. One: The skimpy loin cloths. There was way too much skin and hair in this movie, especially hair. Even for the Seventies, I’d say it was pretty unwarranted. Two: There was no plot, no story, no thread. The dialogue was pointless and the “twist,” if you could call it that was really just one of the funniest parts in the movie. But I don’t want to spoil it for you. Three: The sensuality. Well, maybe not the sensuality, but there was definitely a scene where the Superiors or the Elders or the Important People or whatever had to observe 007’s tumescence because their lack of reproduction made bone-times unnecessary in their particular genetic strain…which I guess is close enough. Anyway, it would have been a suitable fix for Captain Kirk.

The great thing about dessert was that I didn’t eat all of it, which I would have done had not so many other eyes been there to witness the spectacle.

All in all, I was pleased with this one. Red Lobster is actually worth it if you’re really famished and you don’t mind a wait. ZARDOZ was the PERFECT movie for Gadamn, seeing as how it is so irredeemably bad. Jare even fell asleep for a while, which is really part of the whole Gadamn experience. But most of all it was the hearty souls who joined us on our quest. Great Gadamn for February!

Next months Gadamn: Unannounced…to some…

Feb 172011

Apparently, the Gadamn Gang didn’t learn its lesson on our last trek through Northeast Philadelphia. Faithful readers might recall that a couple months back we ventured into the Pizzeria Uno, or Chicago Uno Grill or whateverthehell at Franklin Mills Mall and emerged hunting for doughnuts and the Devil (assisted by Chuck Norris). The night and subsequent days did not go well…

WELL, FRIENDS – We’re at it again. This weekend we’ll be heading to Red Lobster… on the Boulevard! You might even say we’ll be…dipping our toes in the water…on a quest for butter, biscuits and marine life hunted and cooked on a MASSIVE scale for fatties like us rotating in and out of Red Lobster franchises all over this broad land. So check in over the next week (or month, depending on the schedules of SOME bloggers) for new posts on our latest gut-obliterating excursion to…the Greater Northeast!

Feb 102011

Well, it appears that the Gadamn crowd were among the last of the patrons of this South Jersey family dining establishment. Said one reviewer on Yelp!, “why??? why??? why??? i weep for thee!” Said another, “I love Hooters. I always have horrible indigestion after Hooters, but who cares?”

Who cares, indeed. New Jersey is a little sadder, a little flatter, and maybe even a little healthier, but they’ll find a way to overcome, I’m sure.

So it begs the question: Where will all of those backed-up, paunchy business dudes and their younger, flat-brimmed-backward-hat-wearing counterparts of the bro persuasion go now that the Hooters in Maple Shade, NJ, has shuttered its doors for good? The answer, of course, is, “Why, the Hooters of Bensalem!”

Thanks for the memories, Maple Shade!

Jan 212011

Maahk’s Two Cents, Part II

The last culinary event ended at the South Philly Wendy’s, where Milton and Dreams, not yet done in by their Hooters exertions decided to indulge their sweet teeth. Milton ordered a tub of red liquid sugar and I ordered on behalf of Dreams, whose head was tossed back in paralyzing stifled laughter (or so it seemed), a medium chocolate milkshake. What else can I say about this? Nothing. Nothing else.

Before we got to Wendy’s, though, we tried the South Philly McDonald’s, which happens to be a hundred yards from the South Philly Walmart, home to yet another South Philly McDonald’s. But nothing came of this. The workers were definitely cooking and moving around, so they weren’t on strike, but they decided not to serve anyone. So, we left the few hopeful fatties sitting there waiting to wait a little longer…

Stay tuned for the third and final installment: Maahk vs. The Hypercube!