You’re sloppy. It’s 2am, you’ve been rejected by every girl in town, and those pingas didn’t work. You tried to get into Bar Century, but the line was too long, and you didn’t make it to the front door before lockout. Dejected, you trundle to the Hungry Jacks next door. You know what’ll cheer you up? A Stunner Deal. A big, greasy, Stunner Deal.
The tired, sad lady behind the counter trundles out with your meal. Only instead of chips, you’ve got a synth line that buries itself into your ear with the intensity of that tracker that Hugo Weaving feeds to Keanu Reeves in the first 20 minutes of The Matrix. Instead of a Coke, you’ve got a simple fuzzy guitar line more warm and comforting than a blanket made from bald eagle fur. And instead of a Whopper, you’ve got Huw’s problems being unleashes upon you, serenading you with depression.
“Whathafuqisthiz?” you manage to vomit.
“You ordered the Stunner Deal. We got you Bachelor Pad. This is an extended metaphor”