As soon as I beer-belly up to the counter of McDonalds/Burger King/Wendy’s/Chick-Fil-A/Jack in the Box/Popeye's/Arby’s/Taco Time/Taco Bell/Taco del Mar, I know I’m eating a week’s worth of calories. As soon as I turn into a drive-thru, the die has been cast. Why you gotta be reminding me of a truth that’s self-evident? A Big Mac tastes like a heart attack-in-training; I’m pretty sure that I’m not getting beta-carotene and antioxidants from the special sauce.
I know I’m a tub o' lard.
I know I’m killing myself.
And above all, I know I need to jam this signage in the deep-fat fryer.
In Seattle, Mickey D’s and its fatass-inducing friends are required to post nutrition information (i.e. calorie counts) on menu boards in the restaurant. Some even print it on the receipts.
Um, I already bought what you're selling; do I really want to remember the not-so-happy meal I put down my piehole when I’m recording the receipt in Quicken?
Roy Kroc is rolling over in his grave, and not because of acid reflux. It’s time to rip open the ketchup packets, become a BK Basquiat, and create a bit of avant-garde graffiti on the menu boards. Receipts and pamphlets will be gathered up, dipped in the fryer, slathered in mayo, brushed with Brazier flavor, rolled in a tortilla, covered in salsa and sour cream, and sandwiched between two waffles. Actually, that sounds pretty good. Maybe I should just hoover the nutrition information; anything goes down easy with a buttload of high-cal condiments. And this treat is guilt-free, as I suspect my rage is burning more than a few calories.