Gastronomical distress: I have seen the enemy…with pickles

I am a marketing person’s dream. Especially when it comes to food. I’m not talking about your high class cuisine here – not caviar or cheeses whose name I can’t pronounce or nouveau cuisine. I’m talking good old junk food, fast food and anything that might come in weird packaging or colors. I swear this will somehow be the death of me. Death by shitty food. Great. So much for my ultimate dream of death by scantily clad bunnies.

Case in point: last night Angela and I were driving around doing errands. Lo and behold, we both start getting hungry for dinner. Do we do the sensible thing and go home and cook any of the food that we have there? No. Do we pick up something nutritious at the grocery store on the way home? No. We go to Burger Thing. That in itself is bad, what with their commercial with Darius Rucker of Hootie and the Blowfish fame. However, as soon as we drive up to the menu board I see “it” glaring at me, calling to me. Challenging me. Nay, seducing me.

The Triple Whoppper.

My rationalization for getting this thing was simple: it had the word ‘triple’ in it. Son of a bitch. Looking at the picture of it all it needed was four legs and a bell around its neck and it would have been an entire flame broiled cow. Oh, yes, Triple Whopper, you will be mine. And since I’m a gullible consumer throw in those chicken fries that you’ve been advertising. And make the entire thing a ‘large’ meal. But make sure you give me a diet soda. I’m trying to watch what I eat, you know.

We pull up to the window and Angela places the order. First comes her order and the drive through woman is fine. Then Angela says “I’d also like a number 3”. I swear that this is probably the first time anyone has ordered this thing at this location. The woman actually goes “A what? A number 3?!”. Angela, who previously had no problem talking with this woman, looks back at me like I’m the idiot and then says back to the microphone “Yes, a number 3. Large. With a diet coke”. After a brief pause during which time I think the woman had to press the “Red Alert! Dumb Ass Ordering Horrible Food” button that sent everyone behind the grill to DEFCON 4, we get the total for our bounty. We finally get our food and drive home.

And I ate it. That was about 7 hours ago. And I feel oogy. I can still taste it. I feel like I have grease all over me. Ugh. If I burp I swear that instead of a good old fashioned “BRAAAAACK” I’m going to utter at “MOOOOOOOO”. I have this really weird feeling running from my stomach to my throat. I don’t know if I’m going to get sick by vomit or explosive diarrhea. I even feel a little woozy. It may have been the chicken fries that did it. Looking at the grease stains that it left in the box should have given me a warning that it was a bad idea – you know, like how nature makes things the color red to say ‘be careful! dangerous!’.

Triple Whopper. I looked that motherfucker in the face and I ate it.

Excuse me now while I hang my head out the back door and heave.