I remember eating -- let's not be polite here -- I was STUFFING a second piece of cake in my mouth, drunk out of my skull. "Jesus, that's good!" I exclaimed to the Bar Mitzvah guests. I was literally sliding the whole piece in like it was on a conveyer belt.
That margarita would've been a gateway drug straight to the chips, the salty chips a gateway to the spicy salsa (tongue: "hot, hot, hot"), and that would've recapitulated us right back to the ice-cold margarita. Each gulp fantastically starting the cycle again. Nope. No margarita for Fat Boy.