(2016 Comment: Memorable with aunts everywhere. Well, my aunt in particular.)
Today was a fine day to sample the cuisine at the fastest of fast food restaurants in my neighbourhood. Famished, I was brimming with anticipation at the thought of finally consuming some food of proven marginal health benefit. Dehydrated, I was also ready for a sugar filled post-mixed carbonated drink, also with marginal health benefits. With the desire of a thousand hungry men, I descended on Macintire Donalds (sounds way better, right?) at just over the maximum speed permitted by law men.
60, 65, 70km/hr… my speed got faster as my stomach made haste in complaining more abruptly about slowly having to devour itself. As I got closer, I could see a bright object bleeding over the horizon. Brighter and brighter it became as I climbed ever closer to the end that was distant not so long ago. As I reached the summit, I was taken aback by a beautiful sight…
Glorious golden arches, drawing ever closer as the seconds rolled on by. A beautiful sight that almost brought tears to a hungry mans eye. A sight my stomach was eternally grateful for, given it’s current condition. Within a minute I’d finally rolled up to the restaurant. My heartbeat slowly increased in speed to prepare for the onslaught of fat content more confronting than that of Michael Moore, Oprah or that cravat wearing toss on that shitty cooking show I hate.
As I pulled up to the Box of Miraculous Hangover Cures (also known as the drive through), I mulled over what to order. A Quarter Pounder? No, not today, It’s just a glorified cheeseburger. I needed something more substantial. I scanned the menu until I saw it… A BIG-MAC MEAL, with an orange juice. I relayed my order over 1940’s radio technology to the greasy-pimple faced child inside and approached the Miracle Dispenser Window (also known as… the drive through window).
As I waited I reflected on how far I’d come. A mere four minutes ago I was extremely hungover at home. Now I was finally here. Waiting. Seconds from quenching my dubious fast-food desire. Faster than I could fantasise about not being as hungover, the greasy underpaid child produced my order.
I quickly made the short journey home – the smell of the hot and greasy food somewhat soothing my hunger. As I got in the door I could hardly wait to eat and started on the fries immediately. I sat down and quickly opened the Big Mac, hardly looking at it before smashing it like a fat kid smashing down blocks of chocolate. The first bite was glorious. The taste and sensation of that beautiful Big Mac sauce hitting my mouth. I was pleased to be finally eating.
Upon the third bite I noticed something wasn’t quite right. I chewed it some more… it was a little bitter and definitely distracting from the rest of the burger. I looked at the half devoured burger in front of me for evidence of something out of place, when I saw it… that slimy green gherkin! I had seen it before. In my haste to quench hunger (and hangover) I realised I had made a critical error.
You could say I was… in a pickle!?!? (HAHA GET IT?) “Nooooooooooooooo!”, I screamed as the camera dramatically pulled back into outer-space. Fade out. The End.
Giant advertising dollars from McDonalds for this article aside, never has one question caused a nation to divide so bitterly . Who knew that one disgusting phallus-like gherkin soaked in vinegar over an period of time could be the cause of so much heartache and irritation?
As a semi-regular customer of only the finest of fastest food restaurants in this country, I am often confronted with the problem of pickles. And let’s face it, they are just fucking terrible. I honestly don’t find a single thing redeeming about them. Pickles aren’t like onions in that they make everything taste better. They make everything taste like you brushed dog shit onto whatever you were eating.
Buy pickles in a jar from your local supermarkets most wasted shelf space? You’re performing everyone a disservice in providing a reason for retailers to keep them on the shelf. stop what I am doing and make an effort to remove every single one of those green assholes every time I order burgers. You should too, lest they ruin your glorious hangover meal with their awful bitter taste and slug-like appearance.
When I eat fast food I expect the experience to be high in saturated fat and even higher in satisfaction. Pickles ruin at least one of these things, so vote ‘NO PICKLE!’ at all times.