You go to the local fine dining establishment for some breakfast. The restaurant in question is a small mom and pop diner with nothing noteworthy about the decor, service, or food. You're seated, and a waitress comes to take your order. "I'll have the double stack of jumbo choco-chip pancakes, four pigs worth of bacon, one sausage sack, the hashbrown heartattack, two eggs over easy, and two slices of rye toast, more butter than toast, please." As she writes in your order you add the final element, requesting a diet Coke to wash it down (you're watching your figure).
In a feat of Herculean gluttony, you finish the plates of food that soon sprawl out before you. It's a wonderful meal, in as much as a very large and very mediocre meal can be wonderful. It's so good, in fact, that you can feel the valves in your heart struggling to pump blood through veins thick with fat only moments after finishing. And why is your left arm all tingly? Oh, wait, you're having a heart attack, aren't you?