There are few things in this world that can save an alcoholic from a hangover. One of those things is Checkers, a rare and precious find in New York City. More than just a “fast food” chain, Checkers offers the kind of food item solace that no other establishment can, least of all mothafukkin McDonald’s.
It isn’t just that its later founding in 1999 makes it better understand the plight of the modern drunk (why else would they have invented the Baconzilla Fries?), it’s that their employees are the most non-judgmental ilk you will ever come across. They’ve seen it all, and nothing fazes them anymore. There’s even a Facebook page called I Love Julissa at Checkers off the Marcy Stop (granted, that I created) that proves how magical Checkers is as a place to curb drunkenness without the the injudicious opinions of another intervening in your meal.
And so for a woman to have to beg a “man” to come into the Checkers right by the train to cap off an evening of revelry and embarrassing instances is indicative of a larger issue: 1) his appetite is lesser than yours and that will never do 2) he thinks he’s too good for Checkers, in which case, he’s missing a dick. Do not let your blotto state be affected by the poor decisions of this “man;” he is the one who will suffer the next morning as a result of not coating his stomach with fully loaded fries.