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on whom they were attached.  They were softened from time, but still supple and ample with just barely a noticeable sag.  And the cleavage was wonderfully tight in its spacing, not artificially mashed together as with a push up bra or bizarrely frog-eyed like the implant variety.
         “Look, Dr. Grant, I drew a Stegasaurus!”   
         Xander was furiously scribbling onto his placemat with a green crayola.  His shirt was still wet.  He actually had a large pair showing as well.  They were floppy buds, as if he were an obese preadolescent girl, but they were ample enough to fit the definition of breasts.  A five year old boy with a chest like a fudge-loving, never exercising preteen.
         The waitress came and we placed our orders.  Me and Xander ordered the same meatloaf dinner – called the Stegasaurus Loaf here.  Kate ordered the T-Rex burger platter which was just a standard bacon cheeseburger with waffle fries.  She must work out quite a bit to stay in the shape she’s currently in whilst eating bacon, grilled ground beef and deep fried crisscrosses of potato.  Or maybe she’s just eating her one bad meal allotment for this week.  Or maybe she’s just splurging on these calories because she’s on vacation. 
         Now I sound like one of them, where the current obesity generating lifestyle is rationalized as just a temporary hiatus to the healthier lifestyle which will start after coming back from vacation, or after the holidays, or in the New Year, or after this birthday, or in the summer – always about to start at some never-arriving, ever-delayed future.  Where massive volumes of food go in, massive volumes of excuses burp out.  All that needs to be said to complete the classic rhetoric is to go on about the exploits of the skinnier, fitter person of the long ago past that could’ve beat anyone in physical feats of strength and stamina, and then complain about the various current joint aches and resultant immobility that is preventing proper exercise in between bites of a fast disappearing Philly cheesesteak with whiz.  The common path of mental self-preservation seems to be to gloss over the current state of deconditioning by shifting focus to a future change, and then try to impose an image of potential fitness with tales of the unverifiable past.   
         Oh good, the food is here.  I was starving.  Look at this Stegosaurus loaf.  The waitress needed two arms to unload it from the standing tray.  Restaurants seem to pack a garbage can with food, then flip it over onto a plate as a means to measure a single portion, and The Dinostaurant was no different.  How am I supposed to eat all of this?  Purge halfway through my dinner into the porcelain Velociraptor head in the bathroom?  I guess the restaurants are only giving people what they want, only doing what they need to do in order to keep people waddling into here, as opposed to there, where the mound of mashed potatoes down the street is only chest high as opposed to head high here.  Though looking around the restaurant, it looks like most of the people dining would say that this was an appropriate portion for one.  The three hundred pound bearded guy seated next to our table just got up from his booth with a grunt, and all that was left on his table was a plate of chicken wing bones, a platter with steak gristle aside a few smears of mashed potatoes, a saucer with a shallow puddle of melted ice cream and chocolate syrup, and three empty beer bottles.  It seems what people want to do at restaurants is to gorge and gorge on three thousand calorie meals in a race to over-satiety.  It is as if the primitive biologic urge to store calories that existed during man’s times of food scarcity has only accelerated as food has gotten more abundant.  Everyone seems to be storing fat for some Armageddeon.  It is an entirely American concept, though.  I cannot think of another worldly cuisine where the serving