Pot bellied middle-aged bald white man drives to his Motel 6 in his Ford Fiesta, crosses the street to a Waffle House, gorges himself on waffles and syrup, and returns to his hotel room to cry and wonder where it all went wrong?
Sounds great.
Sounds great.
He was in a Chevette, not a Fiesta, and the hotels were off-brand but it's the same idea. A typical passage:
Afterwards I retired with a six-pack to my motel,
where I discovered that the bed, judging by its
fragrance and shape, had only recently been vacated by a
horse. It had a sag in it so severe that I could only
see the TV at its foot by splaying my legs to their
widest extremity. It was like lying in a wheel-barrow.