On your way to the car, this beer gutted redneck comes up to you and grabs you by the shoulders. "Well I'll be! I think we've found ourselves a nice boy for our lil hootinanny at the Alabama Junction Buffet!"
The Alabama Junction? That was pretty close to your house, but you never went. The food was WAAAAAAY too fattening, and everything was fried.
The redneck pulls you over to a pick-up truck and pushes you onto the flat bed before you can argue. He gets in and joins the several other rednecks in various stages of obesity, pot bellies, love handles, what have you.
The pick-up truck soon speeds off, and you're at Alabama Junction Buffet in a little bit.
The rednecks all depart the truck, and one of them pulls you along with him. You're at a table in no time, and one of the rednecks bring you a plate filled with fried chicken and mashed potatoes. "Dig in, boy. Wanna see you eat three of them plates before we finished, or we're makin' you eat them."
You don't suspect that they're bluffing, so you dig in. They pile your plates high with more mashed potatoes before they allow you to give them the plate to go get seconds and thirds. They're all laughing and having a good time, but you feel pretty bad. You can feel your normally thin stomach beginning to curve out and brush against your tucked-in shirt.
By the end of it, your stomach's been bloated out over your belt. It's become this round, heavy sphere that you can see silhouetted in your shirt. You know most of it will probably be gone tomorrow, but still you fear for your waistline. Your stomach heaves down and then back up after it gets slapped. "Looks like this boy had a bit too much fun tonight. We gotta help the poor feller, or else he ain't gonna be able to leave the table. Nothin' gets a stuck man goin' like sum tobacco, so someone get out chaw."
Panic washes over you. You've never wanted to chew tobacco before, you're likely to get addicted. There's nobody but you and the rednecks in this part of the buffet, anyways. They've seemed to have rented this room for privacy.
"Please, I don't want to do this. Can't you just let me go...?"
"Hell naw. This stuff's good fer you. In fact, I reckon you'll soon be seein' us fer more." Hands pin you down to your chair as you feel the dark stuff pushed into your mouth. Hands manually work your jaws, pressing up and down for about a minute, working out as much nicotine as they can out of the tobacco. They let you spit into a cup.
"See? Betcha feel gud now. Now..."