Writer. Warning: opinions. My lawyer advised a disclaimer, but didn't include any jokes to go with. Damned if I can think of any either.

How fat will we get when the waiters are gone forever?

776px-IPad1stGenWaitstaff are going away. Not just headed out to the alley for a smoke break this time, but totally going away. They will be replaced by tablets, as reported here by Forbes and here by Business Insider. As a fat man, I can’t help but wonder how much more ranch I would chug without having to order it from a twentysomething waitress.

Granted, I did lose over 100lbs. My fattest days were years ago. Some might question whether I can truly call myself a fat man anymore, but trust me, I still have fat thoughts. And love handles.

What Chili’s and Applebee’s fail to understand is that their waitstaff are an important safety measure against the unhinged consumption of their typical client. The fear of embarrassment is the only thing holding fatbags like myself back from ordering Ranch as a beverage.

I remember a number of times in my fat Applebees-going life when I would order and then glug down so many full-sugar Cokes that the exasperated waitress would eventually just bring a pitcher to the table.

Once I ordered the salad bar because I was having lunch with a girl I liked. She even commented on the pleasant way the croutons and bacon bits floated in the dressing. It was good, but I still snagged a Big Mac on the way home. For safety, you understand.

Much is made of how hard it is to quit injecting heroin. Hah! Junkies should try quitting the fat life. They aren’t forced to inject a tiny little bit of heroin three times a day, every day, for the rest of their lives.

If we’re going to install tablets to let people order a super double 2lb cheeseburger double fried in syrup butter with cheese-injected fries on the side, why not also put digital scales in the seats?

There’s nothing more American than freedom of choice, so I’ve heard. But maybe it wouldn’t be bad if I could also select to have a message pop up when the digital scale in my booth indicates that a cement truck has parked itself there.

Wrong again, computer. No trucks here. It’s just my ample buttocks. Now stop lecturing me and bring me my mug of ranch. Papa’s hungry.