A morbidly obese man sits behind the wheel of late fifties model drop top convertible. Wind blows through his spiked white hair and rustles the jet black goatee covering his quadruple chins. Polarized sunglasses hide his eyes and warm, slimy sweat lightly coats his doughy face. He wears a black short sleeve bowling shirt with flames racing up the front, bermuda shorts, and sandals...with socks. He looks like a giant douchebag, but to be fair, he is a giant douchebag.

"This is Lincoln Loud," he says, "rolling out, looking for America's greatest diners, drive-ins, and dives."

Generic stock music plays over a montage of scenes from past episodes: Lincoln biting into a hamburger, its juices dribbling down his chins; Lincoln rolling his eyes and moaning obscenely; Lincoln licking his chops and ogling a waitress's breasts; Lincoln celebrating his fifth successful double bypass with a piece of lava cake.

The scene cuts to a parking lot fronting a Spanish mission style building. Palm trees line its facade and a Mexican flag flies from a tall pole. Lincoln parks, throws open the door, and gets out, the car's frame lifting several feet with a sigh of relief. He slams the door, turns, and starts waddling toward the camera. He's even fatter standing up, so wide he takes up most of the screen, and the closer he gets, the heavier his breathing. "If there's one thing I love to do," he says, "it's eat, and when I'm in the mood to chow down, nothing hits the spot like authentic Mexican. This is El Restaurante Mexicano."

A dining room crowded with people and adorned with festive Mexican decorations. A close up of a white woman sitting at a table. She waves her hand. "The tacos are to die for."

"Founded in 2017 by a grad student from El Paso with a dream, El Restaurante Mexicano has been serving it up old school ever since."

A petite Hispanic woman in a purple T-shirt, black hair in a ponytail bustles around an industrial kitchen like a chicken with its head cut off while a chef sauteed onions on a fiery stove. The woman grabs a plate of food, runs it to a window, and rings a bell. "Order up!"

"Ronnie Anne Santiago's been cooking since she was a little girl, and all of her recipes come straight from south of the border. Her specialty is chicken gorditas made with a special blend of spices and slow roasted for seventeen hours."

Lincoln sits at a table across from an old man, Lincoln's stomach pushing against the edge like a sausage in a casing. "This is an eating experience," the old man declares. "Nothing like it in all of Texas."

"What's your favorite thing on the menu?" Lincoln asks.

"Oh, the chicken gorditas. Hands down."

Lincoln stares at the old man's plate and licks his lips. "What's that?"

"Spicy cheese and bean burrito."

"It looks good."

"It is good."

Lincoln looks at him. "Can I have it?"

"Ronnie Anne was going to school to become a civil rights lawyer when she took a detour into Flavortown."

Ronnie Anne stands at the stove with her hands behind her back and a proud smile on her face. Linc stands nearby, the remains of the old man's burrito smeared across his mouth. "I saw the for sale ad in the paper and, I don't know, something came over me, so I bought it."

"Most people's impulse buys are a little smaller," Lincoln says.

She shrugs. "I'm not most people."

Lincoln runs his eyes slowly up and down her body. "No you're not," he says huskily.

Her smile falters.

The scene cuts to her bending over a giant pot and adding powdered spices from a clear plastic container. Lincoln looks on, dividing his attention between her butt and the stove. "First, a little Mexican all purpose spice," she says.

"What's in it?" he asks.

"I can't tell you that," she laughs, "it's a secret."

Lincoln looks at the camera. "It's a secret," he says.

Next, she adds water, shredded chicken, and peppercorns. Lincoln stands over her shoulder, his body uncomfortably close to hers. She tenses but doesn't say anything. "This is how it starts," Lincoln comments.

"This is how it starts," she confirmed. "Then it's slow roasted for a total of seventeen hours."

He leans in and takes a big whiff of her hair. "I have two weaknesses," he says, "Mexican food and Mexican women."

She flashes a strained smile.

Cut to Lincoln standing at a metal prep table. A plate bearing two chicken gorditas drenched in ranch sauce sits before him. Ronnie Anne stands anxiously to one side as though her entire life depends on him liking her food. He picks one up and grins. "Come to papi."

He takes a giant bite, flashes of chicken and saggy bits of tortilla visible in his working maw. Drool and ranch sauce course down his chins and his lips smack wetly together to produce a stomach turning squelch not unlike someone running in mud. He moans in delight and shoves the rest into his mouth, then slowly, suggestively, sucks each one of his fingers clean. He turns to Ronnie Anne and she goes rigid in anticipation of his review. "That's out of bounds," he says, and a look of relief washes across her face.

"Okay...and cut."

The camera keeps rolling. Ronnie Anne stands with her back to it and her gaze shamefully downcast. "Alright, I did my part and made your trash food look good...now do yours."

Sighing in resignation, Ronnie Anne crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her shirt, baring her naked back, shoulder blades flexing her her bronze skin. Lincoln's eyes widen and begins to salivate like a dog. He rubs his hands crisply together. "Now I get to play with your titties."

He grabs her breasts and clumsily fondles them while Ronnie Anne squeezes her eyes closed and winces. Her cheeks blush with humiliation and a single tear slides down her face.


Lincoln stands at his car, panting for breath. "Are you sure you wanna do this, Linc?" someone asks off camera, "you did just eat three Big Macs on the way over."

"Fuck...you…" he gasps. "One of my favorite foods," he begins, "is chili , and I love my chili spicy. If you're in Tulsa, Oklahoma, the spiciest chilli can be found at The Home Team Grill on Western Ave."

Another dining room packed with people. Sports decals, framed jerseys, and signed photos of football, basketball, and soccer players dot the wood paneled walls. Lincoln bends over a table and sucks great gulps of air while the patrons look on in either concern or bemusement. "How's...how's the food here?" he asks.

A woman with short blonde hair beams. "It's really good. I like the -"

"Nevermind, how's the chilli?"

She misses a beat. "Excellent."

Voiceover: "Lynn Jr. opened The Home Team Grill with her dad in 2014. Both are sports fanatics and wanted to share their love of balls with the Tulsa area while hitting home runs with classic favorites like fried chicken, cheeseburgers, and, of course, spicy chilli."

Lynn, clad in black pants, a black T-shirt, and a black visor, stands at a prep table with her hands behind her back. Linc stands next to her. His shirt is crusted with food stains and the remnants of his previous meal are stuck to his lips. His face is red, slick, and bloated. "What makes your chili so spicy?" he asks.

"Our secret sauce," Lynn says with a sly inflection. "It contains a mix of jalapenos, habaneros, and ghost peppers. It's so spicy the city almost outlawed it."

"Gangsta," Lincoln says appreciatively.

"We only use a little bit," Lynn assures him, "anymore and someone might die." She laughs.

Looking at the camera, Linc arches his brow. "We'll see about that."

Cut to Linc standing over a bowl of chili. He holds a glass bottle marked SAUCE, opens the lid, and sniffs it. "Holy moly," he says, "that's strong."

Lynn preens. "Told ya."

"But so is my stomach."

With that, he upends the bottle and vigorously splatters its contents on his chili. Lynn's smile fades. "Hey, wait."

He keeps going.

"Dude, wait, no," Lynn cries and grabs his arm, "that shit's really hot, I'm not playing. It'll mess you up."

Linc shoves her away, and she falls to the floor in a swish of ponytail. "Fuck you, bitch." He slams the bottle down, picks up the bowl, and snatches a spoon from the table. "I like my chili spicy."

He digs the spoon in and raises it to his lips. The camera zooms in as he slurps it into his mouth. On the floor, Lynn looks away like a woman from a catastrophe waiting to happen.

For a moment, nothing happens, then Linc's face turns a deep shade of red and snot begins to ooze from his nostrils. The bowl falls from his hands and clatters to the table, then slips and explodes on the floor. Gripping the edge, he bows his head and starts to pant. The camera zooms in on his quivering chins and snotty mustache. Tears well in his eyes and he shakes his head from side to side as if in denial. Someone laughs off camera, and Linc grates. "Don't just stand there, do something!"

Lynn rushes over with a plastic pitcher filled with thick white cream. "Here," she says, "it's buttermilk."

Linc yanks it away, throws his head back, and pours it down his throat, some spilling onto his shirt and sluicing through the folds of his neck fat. He gargles and coughs, spraying the lens with buttermilk. It slathers his mouth and nostrils, drips soaking into the fabric covering his heaving man boobs. He looks at Lynn, who smiles sheepishly. "This is your fault," he charges. He slams the pitcher to the floor and Lynn jumps. "You made me look a fool on national TV." He wheels around and waddles to the batwing doors. "No one eat here!" he yells at the top of his lungs, "this places SUCKS."

Cut to Linc sitting in his car, his massive stomach pressed tight against the wheel. "I got to touch a hot Mexigurl's tits then almost died at Lynn Jr.'s death trap of a restaurant. All in all a good day. Join us next time here on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives where I'll be visiting Luan's Comedy Club in Santa Monica and Leni's in Chicago. Hope to see you there."

He unwraps a McDonald's cheeseburger and shoves it into his mouth as he drives off into the sunset.