Your name is Anthony Soprano. The year is 2004, and you are listening to Bille Joe Armstrong sing “American Idiot” on your Philips Expanium combination CD/MP3 player on a five-piece sectional sofa. You are not a top guy, and nothing satisfies you. What kind of a club manager eats this many casseroles? You should be eating period-specific sliders on a frosted tray in a corner booth. It’s the casseroles that have been weighing you down, not depression. A thousand leaden Corningwares and a thousand sauce-heavy lasagna noodles.
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