It all started with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. We ran out of sliced turkey … and, being the financially sensible (read: broke) person that I am, I decided that, rather than eat out, I would bring to work a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.
Lunchtime arrived. I was weak. Faint. Famished. I ate the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. It was, shall we say, less than satisfying.
I was starving. To death, even. Death was imminent, is what I’m saying, OK? Don’t judge me.
My co-worker, meanwhile, opted for Burger King … a place from which I had not eaten a single morsel in more than 10 years.
It was 2002 when last I visited the kingdom of burgers. During a pit stop at a rest area in New Jersey, delirious from hunger, I somehow succumbed to the vile call of a bacon double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake. Halfway through that psychotic episode, my hunger-suppressed ability to feel revulsion finally kicked in and I tossed the remainder of my “meal” in the trash while simultaneously using the Jedi mind trick on my wife.
“You shall tell no one what you just saw.”
“I shall tell no one what I just saw.”
“This is not the meal I was looking for.”
“This is not the meal you were looking for.”
And so, aside from that one regrettable episode, I have been fast-food-burger-joint-free for roughly two decades.
Which is why I’m convinced that what happened the other day had to involve my unwitting consumption of a hallucinogenic drug.
It must have been something that the King’s evil minions had sprinkled on the fries. They smelled so good … and their dizzying aroma amplified to an unimaginable degree the inadequacy of the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich that was taking up an infinitesimally small amount of space in my still-growling stomach.
And then it happened: my friend offered me a fry. I ate it … and completely lost my mind.
The rest is a blur. Someone — surely not me — took my car through the Burger King drive-through. I saw a hand reaching out to pay the headset-wearing merchant of death. It looked like my hand … but it couldn’t have been … because, suddenly, that same hand was holding a bag containing “food” from Burger King. What madness was this?
Before I knew it, the contents of that bag had found their way into my stomach, and I spent the rest of the day burping and hiccuping and half hoping that the whole sickening mess would come gushing back out of my mouth like a disgusting geyser of fat and grease and “beef” and space-age preservatives that could keep an uneaten Burger King burger in mint condition until long after the sun burns out.
So I’m looking forward to never eating there again … unless they manage drug me with their hallucinogenic fries, that is.
This is why monarchies are bad, people.