"...I'll be back in a jiff with a super-deluxe Western designed to stick to your ribs, if not pad them over completely," the cook smiles broadly and rubs one fat hand over his own substantial gut, exposing a very hairy chest. He starts to prepare your meal.

You start to scarf down your fruit, feeling relieved that the Saturday morning cook, Giles, does not mind your idea. As you should have anticipated, it takes you a little longer to consume all that extra fruit than normal. You could easily stop now, being satisfied until lunch, but you need to stretch your belly to stomach the force feedings.

"Here you are," says Giles. "Trust me on these eggs sticking around. I love them so much and you can see how nicely they rounded me off. Even now I still have them at least once a day, if not three times."

You look up to take the plate from Giles, who had come over to your table. From where you are sitting and he standing, his belly is right in front of your face. You are jealous of his gigantic waist line and vow to eat these eggs as much as possible to rival him. You look past his big belly and see the plate. Receiving the plate from Giles, you are able to see his face for a moment. Though you would not be considered the most accurate guesser of ages, you would guess Giles is...