Listen, Ernie Davis Dining Center. I’m sick of your crap. I go twice a day with one goal in mind and it never comes to fruition. But tonight will be different.

I know what you want to do. You’re trying to break me, starve me into submission. But you don’t know how far I’ll go, or what I’m willing to sacrifice to get my prize.

Tonight, those chicken nuggets will be mine.

You’ve beaten me before. Many a night I’ve entered your dining center with an empty stomach and high expectations, only to leave with a broken heart and a belly full of rage. This time, things are different. This time, it’s personal.

What’s that, you say? It’s 6:30 p.m. and you’re packed with ravenous underclassmen? Sounds like a challenge to me. Sure, that line goes out the door and halfway up Comstock Avenue, but I’m not worried. I can stand the wait. You’ll get yours and I’ll get mine.

See, this time, I’m gonna paint your white counters red with sweet and sour sauce. No mercy. No prisoners.

You think a measly entrance line will turn me back? You’ve got another thing coming. I’ll ninja my way up to the front of that bad boy and swipe in faster than you can say, ‘Why does that kid have a sword?’

And am I supposed to be afraid of that genetically engineered mush you call ‘vegetables’ at the salad bar? Please. I’ve eaten much fouler things to get my daily serving of fiber.

And do you really think I’m gonna let that cute chick cut me off at the entrée line just because I’m single and those leggings make her backside look like two bran muffins slow dancing? Come on. It’s rush hour and nice guys finish last in this jungle. I’ll gladly pass up that hors d’oeuvre for a shot at the main course.

Look, buddy. You’re not dealing with some 90-pound cheerleader who’s picking daintily at the spinach at the vegan bar. I came to play. I’m not leaving here without consuming my weight in vegetable oil and sodium. Once I get to the front of the line, your chicken supply will be gone faster than Tiger Woods’ pants at an LPGA Tour event.

What’s my secret, you ask? Preparation.

While you were sleeping, I was waiting. While you were serving breakfast, I was watching. While you were handling the lunch crowd, I got myself ready by slaughtering a goat and listening to ‘X Gon’ Give It To Ya’ on my iPod.

Now it’s time for the ultimate showdown. I’m talking Syracuse vs. Georgetown. Backstreet Boys vs. ‘N Sync. Roe vs. Wade. Fersh vs. Ernie.

I know there are risks involved. Your obstacles are enough to turn even the most carnivorous dining center patrons into spineless vegan beatniks. Heck, the last guy who thought he could beat the system ended up 6 feet under a pile of leftover beef goulash.

Still, come nighttime, I’m strapping on my eating boots and taking you down. It won’t be pretty. It might get dangerous. There will be casualties. But when all is said and done, I will stand triumphant on a battlefield of grease, breading and honey mustard.

And by God, those chicken nuggets will be mine.

Danny Fersh is a sophomore broadcast journalism major and his column appears on Wednesdays. He would like his readers to know that Abram Olchyk is responsible for what, if anything, you found humorous about this column and that Amy Hayden is awesome. Also, ninja swords are expressly forbidden at Ernie Davis, though the goat-slaughtering policy is surprisingly ambiguous. Danny can be reached at dafersh@syr.edu.