The night a double cheeseburger attacked....

Clown on vegans all you want, but I'm starting to think that these "fuck you, meat" dieticians have it right. Though, I did (and still do, actually, whenever it's on TV) find joy in the whole vegan-restuarant scene in the lowest-common-denominator-comedy-that-I-shamefully-like Grandma's Boy....you know, the whole "Guy-blow....do I have to shit in a plant" bit. You don't know? Makes sense, that movie was an H-bomb of cinema if there ever was one. With Slim Pickens riding it all the way down into its crash-and-burn mushroom cloud, yelling "Yee haw!!" from launch to kaboom.

I'd be lying if I were to say that I'm ready to actually become a vegan, because the heavens know that I'd never bid "Adieu" to grilled chicken, or any other cooked poultry variation. Some people need water to live; I endure on a consistent diet of chicken-featured dishes. Lifeline, of sorts.

After last night, though, I'm tempted to go the way of the plant. Flashing back....my roommate hits me with quite the dinner proposition---"Let's go to Five Guys, man!" Five Guys, for those many who don't reside in Hoboken, is the city's answer to Fat Burger, or In & Out Burger. Meaning, pure grease and fat in a bun, with a side of even greasier fries that are advertised as having "zero preservatives," whatever the fuck that means. Sounds like "low fat ice cream," which is another crock of shit. But back to the mission-at-hand...I had zero other dinner plans, so I figured, "Fuck it, it's a weekend, and I've been eating mighty healthy for some time now. A nice criminal cheeseburger is the least I could do for myself."

Now, my roommate---who'd been singing Five Guys' praises for the past couple of weeks, since his first glorious feast there---failed to warn me of the carb-den's curious ordering process. If you want a single patty burger, you have to order a "Little Cheeseburger," or "Little Bacon Burger," or etc. Not knowing this, I order a "Regular Cheeseburger," which means a double cheeseburger. Double the indigestion, double the fun. Thinking I have one harmless patty on deck, I also request a large serving of fatty-fries (like when obese people treat themselves to seconds and thirds, comforted by that small Diet Coke on the tray), and to make matters even more distressing, I then pour out some delightftul Mr. Pibb from the do-it-yourself soda fountain. [I'd be a fool to pass up on the Pibb, though. How often do you see that offered? Poor man's Dr. Pepper, sure, but still tastes like heaven-surrounded-by-fizz]

Seated now, with wide eyes blocking my otherwise guilty-as-charged trepidation, I rip into my heart-attack-in-a-grease-soaked-brown-bag-full-of-sin. Feeling quite bad about myself, yet still strangely satisfied. Even walking back to my apartment, after the carnal meal, I didn't feel as gross as I'd anticipated. Physically, I mean; mentally, I was a dripping pile of cholesterol and shame. But as the night progressed, and I sat down to watch True Blood and The Life & Times of Tim, I couldn't shake a real "is that a lead ball in my stomach, or am I somehow fuckin' pregnant now?" washing-over of my entire body and mind.

"It'll go away by morning," I settled upon internally. Whatever help you sleep at night, man. A good night's slumber, mixed with some downtime for my stomach to recover from its intoxicating-substance-overload hangover, would do the trick.

Not quite, lard-ass. This morn, I felt equally, if not more, putrid. Even now, during a lunch break that consists of a lettuce-and-vegetable-drenched salad and water, my belly appears extended and my once-proud sense of Jenny-Craig-would-so-sleep-with-me sheen has been submerged in a sea of American cheese and ground chuck.


[The Devil In Two Buns itself...yuck]

All of this unease and guilt, over a simple double cheeseburger and fries. Where was my reasoning power last night? Now do you see why part of me wants to go vegan and never look back at a plate of processed formerly-living-and-breathing-animal cuisine? I'd imagine that a grows-in-the-Earth-only consumer goes about his or her day energized and light-on-foot. Not bogged down by the excess of edible murder. If only I had the will power and gumption to employ such an extreme lifestyle makeover.

On this Monday, November 3, 2008, I'm hereby tossing a middle-finger-you to steak, hamburgers, sausage, meatballs, beef patties, and hot dogs. Chicken and seafood, still welcome. The dreadful aura of bodily-tension I'm coping with today in the wake of Double-Cheeseburger-Gate '08 is the stuff of cautionary tales.