Choose your own massive adventure.

In the beginning…
You arise. The clock says that it’s one o’clock in the afternoon. Puzzled as to what has awakened you this early, you glance over at the alarm clock. Upon seeing that it is still safely in three pieces after the last time it dared wake you up, you shrug mentally and get out of bed. Now is the time for the food to be prepared, but you’re still tired. Do you:
Get back in bed and go back to sleep.
Go to the stairs.

Back to bed.
You climb back into bed, all of your thoughts glowing warmly over the few precious hours of sleep you will soon reclaim from the vicious maw of daylight. Too late, you notice that you’ve been sleeping on a vicious bed of Tri-Crush scorpions. These crafty little bastards have already been crushed by you twice during your movements in the night, and as you descend upon them, they are crushed for the final third time, releasing clouds of deadly contact poison which causes a slow, painful death. Your final thoughts are of your niece Claudia, meeting that clown in the sewer who said he was breeding these things.
Try again, because you’re lazy.

The stairs.
You arrive before your first real challenge of the day: the stairs. Crafted by the arcane shamans of the high Mexican order, these stairs have been known to trip up and collapse even the most agile of men to their deaths. That’s what happened to the three previous owners of the house. Cautiously, you work your way a third of the way to the bottom before grasping for the rail in terror as your left foot attempts to fly skyward. Do you:
Continue walking down the stairs.
Jump the rest of the way down.
Give up and go back to bed.

Continue walking down the stairs.
Gingerly, you look at the remaining stairs. There’s only one thing to do…press on. You place your foot on the next step, but it gives way beneath you, sucking you down into the cellar. The rest of the house collapses around you, now that the lone load-bearing stair has snapped, and you get to spend the next three months slowly starving to death beneath the rubble of your house, living off your own body fat and rain water, cursing the fact that you decided to make the ground floor bedroom an office and hoping that you lived up to your dharma.
Try again, this time without Samantha Boylan’s coordination.

Jump the rest of the way.
With a mighty leap, you hurl your horribly obese American body down the last two thirds of the staircase. The final two steps pass beneath your feet, and you land with an almighty thwack upon the floor, safely upon the ground. Your stomach calls to you now, begging you to shove food into it. Do you:
Sit down on the couch to get your breath back.
Head to the kitchen.

Sit on the couch.
Winded by your exertions in descending to the living room, you ease your grotesquely fat body on your couch. Suddenly, something stabs you in the butt. You look down at the couch and see a hypodermic needle sticking up from between the cushions. Only then do you remember that you let Dr. Robert keep his supply of morphine hidden under your couch cushions thirteen years ago when you lived in the United Kingdom. After years of pressure, one of the needles finally forced its way out. Over time, the morphine in the syringe had been corrupted by the horrible forces created in the uncleansed depths of the sofa. Eventually, it gained an intelligence of its own, viewing your ass as the God of Slavery, oppressing it and its brothers for all of recorded history with the weight of the world. Now free to roam in your system, it begins to attack all of your organs in a vicious bid for freedom. As you slowly die, you realize…you don’t care. You’re just depressed you never discovered opiates before.
Try again, because you have little else to live for.

Walk to the kitchen.
You turn and walk towards your kitchen. The sunlight playing across the floor reveals a thing layer of frosted air, hovering above the kitchen floor. Suddenly you remember that you’re not wearing shoes, and that floor looks mighty cool. Do you:
Put your shoes on first.
Go in the Kitchen anyway. You’re hungry.

Damn the torpedoes! Kitchen ahoy!
The second you place your unprotected sole onto the floor, you feel something in your…soul. Yes, the other one. A strange sucking sensation fills your head. Then it hits you. Those kids from across the street had been playing with your waterhose, then breaking into your kitchen in their bare feat and stealing all your fat man’s pie. In a burst of brilliance, you, reveling in the full glory of your high school diploma, set out that Burmese soul gem that your sister got you for Christmas three years ago to teach the little brats a lesson. Well, that was stupid. Now you’re doomed to spend all eternity inside the cold shell of the gem, twirling in its twisting nethers. Luckily, little Jimmy Thomas and Bobbie Sue are there too. They brought their jacks!
Try again, this time with 100% more common sense.

A boy named shoe.
Like a good little fat man, you put your shoes on one at a time, and then walk the rest of the way into the kitchen. Through the magic of insulation, you are able to completely ignore the floor that’s as cold as death. After narrowly escaping death so many times, your goal is finally in site. This is the where the magic happens. This is where you cook the food. Now…what are you going to have? Do you:
Open the cabinet next to the sink and get some soup.
Open the fridge and get some leftovers.
Grab the box of macaroni and cheese that’s on the counter.

Open the cabinet.
Upon opening the cabinet, you notice that there is only one gigantic church-picnic sized can of Campbell’s tomato soup in there. You hate tomato soup. Sighing, you reach for it anyway, but once you start to shift the can you hear an extremely deep voice. Balnithazar the Ancient, king of the rats, emerges from behind the can with a troop of his elite warriors. Sighting you, he begins to speak. “How dare you disturb our realm, human? Do you know what must be done with you now?”

Crying in that pathetic way all fat men cry, you beg for your life. You plead with him to have mercy, saying that you were only very, very hungry and that you meant him no harm. “Oh, don’t worry human,” Balnithazar says, “we had no intention of killing you.

The rats scurry all over your body, tying you up in human-proof chains and dragging you behind the soup can to their dark layer. There, they turn you into the center of their new city of Humania. You are the central heat source of Humania, and the combustible gas emissions from your digestive tract serve the rats well for the next fifty years, as does your ample emergency fat supply, which they nibble on when food is scarce. Eventually, you pass away, as all humans do. This causes the Great Long Winter of 2059, where all of the rats of Humania, suddenly living in an inhospitable environment, are forced to move to Canada. But the legend lives on.
Try again, because this isn’t really a happy ending.

Get leftovers.
Upon opening the fridge, you realize you have no leftovers. In fact, you’ve never let a meal go unfinished in your entire life, not even that time when your parents got so mad at you they served you potting soil in an old shoe. Sure, you complained a bit that time, you screamed a little, but once you realized it was this, or eat what little carpet remained in your room. Oh, that delicious carpet. The memories make you even hungrier.
Open the cabinet next to the sink and get some soup.
Grab the box of macaroni and cheese that’s on the counter.

Easy Mac.
Macaroni and cheese. This is the delicacy of guy foods. It requires the most preparation, but the reward is the sweetest you can imagine. Now it’s time to get started with the cooking. You waddle over to the stove and try to turn on one of the burners. Nothing happens. You can hear the hiss of the natural gas as it flows out of the burner, but the electric starter is a no show. This must be fixed. Do you:
Light the burner with a match.
Summon a Pit Lord from the depths of hell to light the burner for you.

Light the burner with a match.
The gas still hissing, you reach over and delicately light a match near the source, to ignite the burner. But you neglected to realize just how much had already escaped the burner, and as the flames roar up into your face, you have a brief moment to enjoy delicious agony before the darkness of death swallows you, and that plant you never watered.
Try again, for great justice.

Summon a Pit Lord.
Gathering the energies of all the dark forces that dwell between the rolls of your prodigious body, you create a gaping portal to the depths of hell, from which emerges that most dark and foul of creatures, the massive Pit Lord Drugthorianus, who looks upon you with great disdain and asks why he has been summoned. You tell him that you require his aid to light the burner on the stove so that you might prepare proper Macaroni and Cheese to quell your aching stomach. The Pit Lord reminds you that for a favor, he will expect payment. You assure him that he will be repaid in kind. Satisfied, Drugthorianus leans over the burner, and with the tip of his finger ignites the burner. The accumulated natural gas engulfs the Pit Lord, and burns off his face. With a resounding thud, he collapses to your kitchen floor, where the Burmese soul gem you placed earlier makes quick work of what’s left of him. Amateur. Now there’s nothing between you and dinner but that bastard mistress, time. Do you:
Wait patiently until it’s done.
Stick your face in the boiling macaroni water, to taste the sweet nectar of pasta just before it’s done.

Boiling water.
You get your chubby face just inches above the water before you realize that not even you are this stupid, and decide to wait for the macaroni to actually finish before doing something stupid with it.
Try again, by waiting patiently until it’s done. Jackass.

Wait patiently.
Waiting patiently for the macaroni to finish boiling, you prepare it when your own special blend of butter, margarine, molasses, milk, and shredded pork. Now it’s time for your final decision of the day. Do you:
Eat the damn stuff already.
Don’t eat it.

Eat it!
You relish those first bites of macaroni like a hooker relishes those first few…like the Boston Red Sox relish winning a world series. You devour the plate before you, like a hooker…like Pac-Man on over drive. But as the last few morsels hit your stomach, your body, destroyed by the many years of food such as this, finally gives up the ghost. With a great heave, your massive, titanic shell of flesh rolls onto the floor as your heart explodes, clogged with the remnants of swine. No one comes to your funeral.
Try again, with less gluttony

Don’t eat it
You stare down at the bowl of macaroni before you. Inside your head, you know you can’t really eat it. You’re several hundred pounds overweight, and your body can’t take the stress of this kind of eating anymore. You take in the glorious aroma of your meal, yo
u stare down at it, and as the clock strikes two, the first glistening tears fall from your face into the bowl. For you, another day is beginning. What will it bring?
This is the end! Start again?