Fast Food

We all know how bad it is for us. We know America is obese because of it. I'm sure most of us have seen SUPERSIZE ME. Does that prevent us from shoveling in an occasional whopper, taco, french fried, pizza combo? No. Why is that? If I offered you arsenic, would you ingest it? No! But how about in small amounts? I'm slamming fast food today, because I succumbed to the wretched, freaky, plastic headed Burger King. I don't know what sucks me into that black hole of a fast food chain. In my mind, a Whopper sure does sound good. I should listen to my stomach, which says, Kevin, I'll make you pay if you put that in your mouth and swallow. It's called fast food because of the speed in which it's produced. Once I have possession of my "fast food", I eat it just as fast as they squirted it out the window. I hardly take a breath, and I never put the sandwich down until every last vestige of calorific goodness has been slam dunked down my throat. I don't normally eat that fast, but for some reason... it's like I'm a lion with a fresh kill, and I have to engorge myself before the rest of the pride arrives to tear off their portion. There's really nothing appealing about the establishment either. No ambience, no art work, no comfortable seating and pleasant background music... what's the draw!? You stand in line behind the woman with five kids, who tries do decide what every last hungry little bird wants to eat, the moment they get to the cash register. Then, there's the guy behind you who smells of a combination of motor oil, grass clippings, body odor, and cigarettes. That alone should turn your stomach, and make you want to walk out. But no! You're on a quest for the almighty Whopper of Love! Then there's the soda pop station. It's usually low on ice, and every last square inch of it is sticky. Oh, don't forget the ketchup! You can either put it into the little cups provided, which, every last one of them has been handled, and strewn like confetti, or just scoop it up off of the counter. Finally, food in hand, condiments, drink, but no place to sit. Oh wait, there is one spot. But first, somebody needs to clean up the apparent murder scene that happened prior to you arriving. Some of that garbage is unrecognizable. I wasn't aware they served that here? So, the zit faced 16 year old assistant to the assistant manager cleans your table with water, and the same dish rag used to plug up the leaking P trap in the bathroom, and you're all set. Enjoy!