Last week, while ordering a cool frosty at the indoor counter, I watched a man, struggling with his own girth, pass out while standing at the condiment bar in the Dairy Queen on Aurora Avenue. If the monstrous sound alone did not alert the generally downtrodden diners to the event, the great rumble created by the force of the fall surely did.

Sadly, this fall landed our mammoth-proportioned subject onto his tray of 3 double-bacon cheeseburgers, two fries, a chocolate shake and a sprite, the contents of which found their way into the various caverns of the folds between his skin and garments. The remainder of this unseemly mass squirted out from under his body, creating a dispersion of foodstuffs that was remarkable to behold. One would presume a cannon had been fired, flaying the trash cans and nearby tables with a veritable smorgasbord of the restaurants offerings.

Luckily, I escaped, unharmed, with my frosty. Nothing like a cool, refreshing, ice-cream-flavored treat to cheer up the day.