The Whipped Cream Queen Happy Mothers Day, shitfolk. Allow me to share my experience with a crustomer while it's still fresh in my memory. I work at Denny's, an "All Ameruhicun Diner" that caters to fats with an appetite for self-destruction. Last night, lady lardly and her scrawny beta male came in for meal. Waddling in at approximately 350 Freedom Units, the she-beast was so huge that once seated, it's bosom and main stomach molded into one mound of adipose, while its gunt settled beneath the rest of it so that the edge of the table was securely wedged between the folds of flab. I looked at my coworker, "She's all yours, kiddo." And he walked off, leaving me to fend for myself. With a heavy heart, I proceeded to their booth. Beta Bob placed their orders. Which actually makes perfect sense, because obviously the sick bastard is a feeder, deep into the grisly fetish that is obeastiality. The princess of pudge desired a Lumberjack Slam; 2 pieces of bacon, 2 pieces of sausage, 2 pieces of bread, 1 thick slab of ham, hashbrowns, 2 eggs, and finally 2 pancakes. As I turned away from their booth, it groaned, "Hey wait, can you add something else?" I contemplated what else it could possibly want while she finished sucking down her soda. "Can you put strawberries and whipped cream on my pancakes?" Me, being the savage  that I am, was happy to oblige. Using a spatula, I smothered the first pancake in butter. Then the second. Next, I grabbed an unopened can of whipped cream and covered the plate so densely, the pancakes were not even visible. To top it off, I drenched the slop with the syrup/strawberry concoction. This was a true calorie castle. When I presented the food to the she-beast, it's eyes bulged as if it had just contracted Grave's disease at that very moment. Leaving them to their beetus buffet, I returned to servicing other tables, one in particular that hosted a group of tubblerinas. This group had it all; double bellies spilling out of crop tops, tacky fake nose rings, vibrant shades of hair color, and mannerisms to match. As I crossed the diner, I heard the The Lumberjack Ham's rumble. "Excuse me, can I have more whip?" Glancing at her plate I saw that most of the breakfast had been devoured, all that remained where the now whip-less pancakes and toast. Beta Bob had succumbed to her cravings and his stack of pancakes also sat before the she-beast. "Um, actually, can you just bring me the whole can?" Did my ears deceive me? No, this fat fuck really wanted a whole can of whip. I brought it to her, and secretly watched her spray whip onto both plates of cakes and the toast as well. I was disappointed that the Whipped Cream Queen didn't just squirt the whole damn thing into its pie hole. Eventually, I went to buss their table. She-beast sat still dissatisfied so Beta Bob requested a sundae. After they left (2 hours and 10 plates later) the tip was just as I expected, under $5 for an almost $60 meal. I love my job.