By and large, I am not an average consumer of fast food eats. Meaning, the average American person aged 8-80 eats fast food something like, 15 times per week, according to a study I may have made up or am misremembering. Hyperbole aside, people love to punish their colons in an efficacious, affordable manner.
Not me, though.
And it’s not because I am a “health nut,” or someone of superior culinary affectations. It’s mostly because it’s even cheaper to cook at home, and my life—while busy—isn’t so busy that the convenience of procuring my sustenance without leaving my car really means all that much.
Oh sure, I’ll occasionally get it on with a spicy chicken sandwich from Wendy’s, or make a pilgrimage up north to passionately devour powdered-cheese topped tacos at In-a-Tub, but these dalliances don’t really happen with any kind of regularity.
But tits-on-a-racecar do I love McDonald’s breakfast.
It’s an irrational love, quite honestly, and one that I’m at a loss to explain.
I worked at McDonald’s for two years as a teenager, which, when the average tenure is something like 8 weeks, basically qualified me for some sort of pension when I left to go wash dishes at Olive Garden.
Working at McDonald’s—and during breakfast, more specifically—was miserable. Going to school all week, then getting up on Saturday morning at 5am to listen to old people bitch about their ridiculously customized orders and unrealistic expectations was enough to make me swear off eggs for a lifetime. (Lest I become anything like BJ, the ornery, old cuss who demanded that her bacon, egg and cheese come with the bacon almost inedibly burned, and curiously, no egg.) The smell of the grease clung to you and penetrated your pores, and by 10:30am, you were more hash-brown than man.
Compounding my inability to rationalize my lust, I don’t think McDonald’s breakfast will ever be confused with “quality eats.” The eggs on the biscuit sandwiches come from a carton, the cheese is basically melted orange plastic, and the sausage—as grey and limp as an elephant’s penis—doesn’t really resemble anything you might see in the wild.
Something about it just tickles me in the right spot, though. It makes my eyes glaze over and my arteries harden, and given the opportunity, I would eat McDonald’s breakfast for every meal, and likely, I’d end up hating myself for it.
So imagine my consternation at the recent announcement that, beginning October 6th, The Great Golden Arched Overlord will begin serving their breakfast menu all-day. Because part of the reason I don’t have a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit each and every morning is due to practicality: I don’t want to sit in a drive-thru line on my way into work.
But given that option over the lunch hour? Or on my way home? Or at 9pm, headed home from some sort of spirited function where I was forced to subside on nothing but booze and cocktail weenies? All bets are off. I will eat six breakfast burritos for dinner, wash it all down with a blended McGriddle, and then cry softly on the toilet for the rest of the night.
Good Lord, I am going to get so incredibly fat.