What follows is a true story, written for a creative writing exercise, posted at Jen's suggestion.

It was an otherwise-ordinary evening in the summer of 2001, when I learned a very important life lesson. My roommate, Josh, and I, along with our friend, Bobbi, had decided to go out for dinner. After an unnecessarily lengthy and, at times, heated discussion, we finally decided on Applebee’s. Josh and I were both craving their all-you-can-eat riblets. All through my teen years, I never tried drugs or did any of those other foolish activities normally associated with peer pressure. Short of those extremes, though, I’d never had a problem with doing something silly or weird at the urging of my friends. This night, though, my questionable standards would lead me to ruin.

Our trio arrived at Applebee’s and, as was expected, Josh and I both ordered the riblets, while Bobbi ordered chicken fingers. Josh tended to be a little bit competitive, which I knew well and which is normal for young men in their early twenties. However, I foolishly failed to take this fact into account when I placed my order. Our food soon arrived, and we began eating. After Josh and I had both finished our first platter of riblets, our waitress promptly brought us each a second helping. We finished these in due time and entered into a brief discussion on whether or not we felt up to having thirds. This was where Josh’s competitive nature reared its ugly head. Convinced we couldn’t wimp out at seconds, Josh talked me into one more round of riblets, though I admit I didn’t need much persuasion.

Our waitress arrived a few minutes later to take away our bone-laden plates, and inquired as to whether we’d be needing even more riblets. Josh decided he’d had enough. Unfortunately, he also decided I needed to keep eating. I looked to Bobbi to be the voice of reason but, having finished her chicken fingers, she was in the mood to be entertained and decided to argue Josh’s case, instead. The two of them convinced me I should try for five orders of riblets, to which I finally acquiesced, though I honestly wasn’t sure I could succeed. You know, looking back, there’s really something to be said for the human body’s capacity to ingest ridiculous quantities of meat. Thanks to the events of the evening in question, I now know that the whole thing eventually becomes almost exactly like shoving marshmallows into a tube sock. You can just keep shoving and shoving. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Our waitress reappeared and handed me serving number four. After finishing this plate of riblets, I was pretty sure I was ready to quit. My stomach was uncomfortably full, and I was just a little bit afraid of embarrassing myself by puking in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Once more consulting Josh and Bobbi, my so-called friends, I found myself grudgingly requesting a fifth helping of pork. A moment later, I found myself just as grudgingly eating said pork.

As I set down the final bone, thus marking my victory over five plates of sauce-laden riblets, relief welled up within me. I’d done it! I’d gotten the better of a disgusting amount of meat! Feeling like a hero in my own right, I turned to my friends with a smug smile. It’s to my eternal shame that I confess, now, my smile was short-lived. Unimpressed with my accomplishment, Josh and Bobbi decided that I needed to go for ten, and that they needed some dessert. Placing our respective orders with our long-suffering waitress, I silently promised myself I would stop after my sixth order of riblets.

It turns out I lied to myself in that moment, because our waitress soon brought out the seventh order. As she set the plate down, she said, “I told my manager about what you’re doing, and he says if you can eat ten orders of riblets, he’ll give you a free dessert. But you have to eat it in the restaurant.” Giving her the look such an idiotic suggestion deserved, I resignedly started in on the plate of meat.

It should be said that, by this point, I was painfully aware of how out-of-hand the situation had become, but that I felt powerless to stop it. It had started as a joke, an easy way of giving my friends something to laugh about. Then the management of the restaurant had gotten involved. All I could do now was push on to number ten, then go home and die from meat poisoning or some other fitting consequence of so absurd a prank.

When my tenth and final order of riblets arrived at our table, the aforementioned manager came with it. He shook my hand (I’m not kidding), then said, “I talked to our cook, and he tells me you’ll have eaten about 64 ounces of meat when you finish this order. Did your waitress tell you about my offer?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “But there’s no way I’m going to want dessert after this.”

Being a generous and good-natured fellow, he made a new offer. “Okay, if you finish this order of riblets, I’ll give your friends a free dessert to split.” It seemed a fine idea, except my friends had already each eaten a dessert of their own. I informed him of this and, after a moment’s careful consideration, he said, “Okay, I’ll take their desserts off the check if you finish this order.” As you can imagine, at this point my friends became even more persuasive in their urging. Watching their fat friend eat an almost supernatural amount of meat had been good enough for them, but now they were faced with the prospect of each saving five dollars on the check.

Suffice it to say, I finished that tenth order of riblets, and the manager was as good as his word: my friends did get their desserts taken off the check. As I squirmed in my seat on the drive home from Applebee’s, wishing unsuccessfully for a swift and merciful death, I was forced to acknowledge that I’d learned a very important life lesson: Giving in to peer pressure is always a bad idea.