If she wasn't drooling before, she had practically turned into a slobbery small imitation of the Niagara Waterfall.
Renamon could only stare at all the calorie bombs before her.
With full, stuffed turkey, goose and chicken dinners, with smashed or baked potatoes (generously topped with sauce) serving as garnish, along with ribs, steaks and some meaty salads drowned in mayonnaise or Tartar sauce, to fish dinners with elegantly fried chips, cheese plates with wine or champagne to make it slide down more easily.
Next to all of this, the most greasiest, but arguably non-processed, yet, still fattening full menus of fast foods, with multi-level ham and cheese burgers, chicken wings and french fries, snack-pies and small cakes, along with (again) plenty of sauce, family-size pizzas and pizza pies, hot dogs and corn dogs, all sided with soft drinks, and actual, cooked corn-cobs, in neat little stacks, with butter and salt spread all over them, serving as something of a common ground between the two arguably different assortments of food.
With fancy, snobbish foodstuffs and cheapo, fatty meals beside each other in perfect, mutually-fulfilling harmony, it all seemed like to be some form of political statement, portrayed through the culinary arts.
What little restrain she had soon eroded, as her stomach growled loudly, demanding to be filled.
"...Oh, to Hell with it!" she snapped.
She remembered the last time she and Impmon had some junk food. The small glutton's heckling never ended: "If you're so strong, why is it that you can't seem to hold any food? Is your pwetious wittle belly too small to hold all this?" he teased, downing an entire bag of chips. This irritated her to no end, but she secretly felt envious of the little joker.
"Well then..." she murmured, grinning down at the table "I'll show you "little", you plum-shaded twerp..."
With that, she set out to alleviate the table's struggle against it's contents' weight.
"Now, where should I start?"