George & Wendy Show

Wendy Parker

Fast food and filthy lies

| August 15, 2012

I have heard that the government is declaring henceforth all fast food establishments must notify the customer about changes, mutations, modifications, shifts or bastardizations in any of their edible products. Plainly stated, they must notify you if they have changed the way the sammich is made.

What a beautiful world this would be for people like me if this were true. When I say people like me, I mean the twenty-five people currently residing on earth, myself among them, who Do Not Eat Condiments. That’s right, I eat my food naked.

Now that the gasps and embarrassed titters have quieted down – there are living, actual people who do not want anything but meat and bread when they order a ‘hamburger’. Makes a lot of sense when you actually think about it, when I order a hamburger, I really should only get a meat patty. Not a meat patty, cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, chutney, mayonnaise and mustard with anchovies, all on an excessively large and seedy bun.

The French Dip was a blatant lie, but the only fast food sandwich I could order without having to say, “No ketchup, mustard blah blah blah, yes, just the meat and the bun. I know it’s almost too much to handle, but I’m counting on you, hamburger guy, to be able to see me through and get a meat patty on a bun, unblemished and fresh.”

I loved the freedom of the French Dip, although the restaurant thought I was dumb enough to actually believe the sandwich originated in France. I ordered them with reckless abandon, even cocky in my assurance that they would not come oozing some unidentifiable, oil-based dairy product. My Xanadu of fast food crumbled horribly in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

My husband ran in to get food for us while I attended to personal matters. We were on a tight schedule (as usual) and there was no time to dine in.

I was starving and the smell of  meat log was intoxicating.  I had the familiar tube-shaped wrapper open before we hit the highway, only to find, GASP, a different kind of bun, along with cheese and the most dreaded of all condiments, mayonnaise.

“Did you order FRENCH DIPS?!!” (I may have screamed a little when asking this.)

“Yes, I ordered French Dips. They’ve changed the French Dip, it’s now the New And Improved French Dip.”

This reply was unacceptable.

“I will write letters, heads will roll,” I declared vehemently, “I will make sure all of the stock holders suffer for this transgression against me and the twenty-four others who counted on this simple sandwich.”

My husband, who will eat any condiment known to man, just sighed and said, “Please, just feed it to the dog.”

This was too much.

“I would not feed my dog this rabbit tripe, it is diseased and has mayonnaise on it.”

The dog was extremely disturbed by this and suddenly very alert. I had quickly devolved into a raving lunatic about a sandwich. My husband’s responses were careful and measured, mine were disturbing to the dog.

“I’m going to put an M-80 in that freaking sandwich and blow it up on the lawn of the establishment to protest the change.”

The thought gave me great joy.

“That’s not a very good idea. And we don’t have any M-80’s, it’s against the law to have them in the truck.”

Always doing everything by the book, he is.

“Well since you don’t mind diseased rabbit tripe, I guess you’ll eat your nasty scab and mayonnaise sandwich with cheese. Cheese is supposed to make it all better, I guess. You ate it and you liked it, didn’t you? I can’t live with someone who eats mayonnaise.”

There was no longer any doubt I had gone over the edge. Hunger does that to me.

“You’re a nurse. Blowing things up is frowned upon by the nursing board in any state.”

He carefully noted this, hoping to distract me from my original plan.

“Yeah, well it’s good I’m a nurse  because I can help all the innocent victims in the wreckage of the burning drive thru after I blow the sandwich up.”

The thought, again, gave me great joy.

“There will be no burning wreckage from an M-80. You may hurt yourself, but there will be no burning wreckage. I know this, I have a Haz Mat certification.  And I know you.”

Clearly this was not what I wanted to hear.

“You and your vicious lies!! You’re trying to take the joy out of blowing this sandwich up for me.  Of course I can light the fuse of an M-80 without hurting myself.”

“Two words.  July 2004.”

“That totally wasn’t my fault.  The fuse was defective.  You are evil.”

It had to be said.

“You’re freaking out over a sandwich.”

Of course, he was right and I didn’t blow the sandwich up, but I DID NOT feed the cheese -laden, mayonnaise-soaked sandwich to the dog. I saved it and took it to the next French Dip place we stopped at as proof they are trying to starve me to death. That’ll teach ‘em.

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