Monday, July 26, 2004

I usually avoid discussing fast food more than once a week not only for variety’s sake, but also because doing so would mean I consumed the vile stuff multiple times. And so it was I found myself at Burger King today, happily joining some co-workers in their noble quest to thin out the King’s legion of processed patties. Man, did I pay extra for the experience, and I’m not talking about nickels or dimes.

My supervisor orders “Rodeo Burgers” each time we go. Never heard of them, eh? You can scan the in-store menu, ask your friends, search the website all you want, but only concerted sleuthing will give you answers. It’s a delicacy drenched in secret sauce and slathered in innovation, mark my words, and that’s why I’m here to help separate the myth from the meat.

If you quiz any patron about the Rodeo Burger, you’ll probably get a confused look. “Where did it come from?” they’ll likely ask before posing the more relevant question: “Why did it come?” From what I’ve gathered, the Rodeo Burger once stood proudly as an inexpensive novelty, a forbidden pleasure one could purchase for a buck. Capitalism, however, moved to flush this burger down the crapper long before its time, prematurely shoving the poor sandwich into the dark recesses of BK lore. It’s a sad story that needn’t be sad, mostly because the sandwich itself simply combined classic ingredients into a new configuration. You’ve got your Whopper Jr. tricked out with cheese, onion rings, and barbeque sauce. If you’re feeling queasy at this point, you should probably get the hell off my porch.

Ordering the Rodeo Burger is the fun part. I mean, who orders off the menu at Burger King? I felt like one of the King’s advisors, yes I did, and surprisingly they knew how to make the burger. That’s the good part, now for the bad.

Point is, I ate one Rodeo Burger too many. Now, my body hasn’t given any clear indication of incompatibility per se, though I have felt sleepy and bloated. The voice inside me says, persistently so, that someone spiked the barbeque sauce with a little death.

“You’ve got to develop some tolerance,” supervisor Andrew told me.

“Ugh,” I replied, sprawled out on my desk like a dirty burger lush.

Instead of developing tolerance, I think I’ll develop a moratorium on fast food, at least for the next few months. No more Burger King, no more McDonald’s! It’s time I nursed my stomach back to health. Giddy-up, gastrointestinal system, giddy-up.