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| - So grotesquely overwhelming, multitudinous, bombastic, and monolithic that it's like a volley of regret straight to the aortas of your now barely pulsating heart. That beating organ is now like a deflated tire after roaring across a police issued spike strip.
How does Hash House a Go Go exist? Even if you're drunker than a 19th century prospector, it's still easy to feel bad about stuffing your face with the food that's served in this restaurant. Forget reading Dante's Inferno; this place is like living the third circle of Hell. Everything is perpetually slathered in gelatinous gravy, propped up by creaking pillars of bacon, or slathered with butter and pancake syrup.
But...
It's so good.
If your girlfriend is laboriously attempting to make eye contact with you, even as you ram fried chicken the size of a Buick down your throat, your brain will still refuse to emit shame. You will make her sign a disclaimer, before you enter the restaurant, that says, "As your girlfriend, I will still love you even after your body absorbs seven biscuits in thirty nanoseconds."
And you know what? That obligatory story about how quantity overwhelms quality is an old wives tale when it comes to the hallowed ground of Hash House a Go Go - everything here deserves to be stuck to your incisors.
So go on and make it rain, Hash House a Go Go. In this case tears of defeat and of joy.
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