I'm hungry. I want a burger. A nice juicy all-American Hamburger. You can keep your succulent Kobe beef. Give me the ground meat where they just toss a dead cow into a meat grinder, including the internal organs and bones, and call it good. Complete with the USDA recommended daily allowance of Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. Don't bother putting any lettuce or onions on this burger. No roughage for me. I want my grandkids standing outside the door waiting to use the bathroom when this thing leaves my colon. A nice slice of cheese on top. Not the kind made from milk so loaded with hormones it causes eight year olds to start menstruating. Save that for the granola eating crowd. I want the kind that causes six month olds to start having hot flashes. As for the condiments? Put on some ketchup made from tomatoes provided by the good folks at the Monsanto corporation. Blood red, and so durable we could use them for a game of handball without bruising them.
On the side? Give me some french fries so loaded with preservatives I could leave it behind my water heater for a month, and all I would have to do is wipe off the dust and dead cockroaches, and it's as good as new. Fry it in whatever lard or fat you have handy and cover it with a legionnaire's salarum worth of salt and it's ready. Cover it with the chili made from the leftovers of yesterdays salisbury steak. A staple of the superior American educational system since the day Columbus landed in Ohio in 1776.
And for dessert I'll have some ice cream. Not the kind where the proceeds go to promote world peace. The brand where the proceeds are used to prop up corrupt South American dictators by paying bribes for grazing rights in rain forests.
After such a hearty meal I'll have a smoke. Not a cigarette, those are for women, kids, and homos. Let's stop pretending otherwise and just make them all Virginia Slim's. Give me a nice Cuban Cigar. Grown in sweltering heat by poor laborers, in backbreaking conditions, within throwing distance of the pristine beaches where the rich socialists of Europe and Canada go to relax.
Do you serve that here? If not, I know a place just down the street that does.
On the side? Give me some french fries so loaded with preservatives I could leave it behind my water heater for a month, and all I would have to do is wipe off the dust and dead cockroaches, and it's as good as new. Fry it in whatever lard or fat you have handy and cover it with a legionnaire's salarum worth of salt and it's ready. Cover it with the chili made from the leftovers of yesterdays salisbury steak. A staple of the superior American educational system since the day Columbus landed in Ohio in 1776.
And for dessert I'll have some ice cream. Not the kind where the proceeds go to promote world peace. The brand where the proceeds are used to prop up corrupt South American dictators by paying bribes for grazing rights in rain forests.
After such a hearty meal I'll have a smoke. Not a cigarette, those are for women, kids, and homos. Let's stop pretending otherwise and just make them all Virginia Slim's. Give me a nice Cuban Cigar. Grown in sweltering heat by poor laborers, in backbreaking conditions, within throwing distance of the pristine beaches where the rich socialists of Europe and Canada go to relax.
Do you serve that here? If not, I know a place just down the street that does.
