The Baconator

Consider the Baconator combo meal from Wendy's.

Half a pound of beef in the form of two patties (fresh, never frozen), piled high with six, count em six strips of hickory smoked bacon. Glued together with two slices of American cheese and topped off with ketchup and mayonaise. Slammed down in between two buns and served with fries and a Frosty. So grotesque...so overdone...so needless...so American it ought to squirt red white and blue juice.

See it well, dear friends. It will prove to be my undoing.

What is it about this particular hamburger that holds me powerless? Why can't I refuse it! I'm never satisfied after eating one, I always feel fat and greasy and slightly troubled by the amount of animal (pig AND cow) that I just consumed.

It has to be something about the Baconator's bold faced unashamedness. It is brashy. It is sassy. It is what it is, and it knows it, and I know it, and I love it and hate it for this...and the Baconator knows this too.

I'll be on my way somewhere, usually on my way to work number two from work number one, and I'll pass by Wendy's. Upon first glimpse of that red pigtailed sign, my olfactory senses immediatly ramp up into overdrive. My mouth begins watering. My hands shake. Already the Baconator pulls me in like some sort of freshly grilled black hole, my imagination sends me fantasy after delectable fantasy, and before I know it I'm standing in line.

"But all is not lost!", I groan, knowing that all indeed is. "I may be at Wendy's but at least I can get a wrap!"

But I have no intention of doing such a thing. The lady behind the counter knows it, I know it, Dave Thomas in heavenly Frosty Palace knows it.

I order the Baconator.

Here's the point where things begin to get really messed up. Yes, I've now ordered a hamburger that has a very real chance of striking me dead of heart attack immediatly upon consumption. Yes. But I could still be marginally healthy. Dave Thomas (smart Dave, cagey Dave) has also given me the option of getting WATER and a FRUIT CUP instead of a Frosty and Fries.

Dave knows I won't do this. (crafty Dave, oh so clever Dave!) Because I've already ordered a sandwhich called THE BACONATOR. What's the point of getting a fruit cup! I'll most likely be dead before the fourth bite, I might as well ENJOY my death as much as possible.

And so I happily hammer the final two nails into my congestive heart failure coffin.

Because the Baconator is a momentary happiness. All joy in the eating vanishes with the last bite. I finish a Baconator with the same kind of guilt and self loathing that I imagine drug addicts and ciggerette smokers feel after falling off the wagon.

But a Frosty and Fries...that is a road towards obiesity that I will joyfully skip down at every opportunity.