“I’m… I’m…” the lady choked when she saw me standing there with my hand full of money and spattered blood stains drenched all over my shirt.
“Geez, I’m… I’m…” Ready for another drink, it sounded like.
“Don’t worry,” I dismissed. “It wasn’t your fault.” I forced the money onto her and made my escape.
Well, the stains weren’t the product of a bloody encounter so much as an uncooperative hamburger. I’d innocently made my way down to one of the local cafes on my lunch break and ordered a freshly-cooked hamburger for lunch. It seemed like a much better idea than forcing myself into the submission of one of the fast food chains at the time.
I was served my lunch and sat down at a table, relaxing as I read a book. The hamburger had already deposited nearly a third of its dripping payload into my lap. I watched with horror as the vegetables and meat unwound themselves from the confine of the bun and squirmed free onto my shirt. Once I’d managed to clean the mess up, the hamburger continued its rampage by urinating a yellowish substance onto my shirt. This isn’t the first time this has happened to me – by now, my shirt resembled what the hamburger would probably look like when my body had disposed of it.
Quickly scanning the table in front of me, I began hastily withdrawing serviettes from the dispenser to my right. Moistening it with my tongue mum-style, I furiously began scrubbing away rather pointlessly. The stain refused to evaporate, instead lazily spreading to a brownish mark double its original size.
As if to mark such an occasion, a man fitting passing all of my phsyical attraction check-list points plonked himself down at the table opposite me. He looked up, then frowned; disgusted by the slob unable to master the process of simple hamburger consumption.
Realising that attempts to clean my shirt were futile, I sulkily made my way to the counter to pay for the food. The woman at the cash register bore a striking resemblence to Lindy Chamberlain – had I not been embarassed by my clothing decoration, I would have definitely proposed my movie idea to her. (I’m thinking of producing a remake of ‘Evil Angels’ (known in the US as ‘A Cry in the Dark’) – you know, the Azaria Chamberlain story. I think it could quite easily be remade as a comedy – ‘Dude! Where’s My Baby?’ has quite a ring to it).
Yet after offering intial apologies, she then quipped that perhaps I needed a bib! Well, fuck you, and your wily hamburger shenanigans! I bet you run the dry cleaning store next door!
Thankfully, upon return to the office, Leah knowingly suggested I rub soap all over it and try to wash it off. This proved more successful than I imagined it to: instead of looking like a grub who spilt food on his shirt, I looked like a grub who spilt food on his shirt two days ago.
It’s hamburger hysteria incidents like these which are swiftly turning me off the once-classic grilled cow and tri-vegetable combination. It appears that copious amounts of lubricating butter and fat must now be applied to ensure the swift removal of your pleasantly neat appearance.
So it looks like I’m turning back to bread for comfort. Bread is far cheaper, anyway: I could buy a whole loaf of the stuff for the price of a hamburger. In fact, when I was living in university dorms I had a friend down the hall who adored the heated wheat snack so much that he nicknamed himself Toast. (His flatmate was known as Noodles. These guys didn’t have jobs).
Toast adored toast so much that he would promptly announce Toast Parties at all hours of the morning. This comprised of a circle of haggard medical and arts students sitting cross-legged around a toaster, eagerly awaiting the arrival of more toast. When the toast finally flew into the air, cheering would fill the room in celebration of the snack. Toast’s other flatmate would usually poke his head in the door with a theatrical disapproving shake of his head, but he either was one of the rare university students who slept at 3am, or he wasn’t stoned. Maybe a combination of the two.
See, when was the last time hamburgers brought you such a celebration? In fact, Toast had even composed a comedy routine on the subject of toast. For some reason it seemed much funnier at the time, but lines such as ‘Why did the plane crash?… The pilot was a loaf of bread’ may not go over so well with a crowd less chemically induced than the audience Toast was used to.
However, toast and bread is under attack from the burger corporations. My happily mindless stroll to work from the train station this week uncovered an alarming new addition to McDonald’s breakfast menu: raisin bread.
Yes, a product which was one safely monopolised by Tip Top and Buttercup is now to become McToast-ised – at 30c a pop, too. It seems the equivalent of the 30c cone has hit their breakfast menu, but I don’t believe for a minute this will be the regular raisin toast everyone is used to.
Oh, no. This particular little snack will have unusually large raisins. The crust will be a little too thick. The butter will undoubtedly contain faint traces of beef stock. In short: they’ll give it the hamburger treatment.
Soon, I won’t be able to eat anything even remotely bakery-related without fear. McDonalds’ McWraps have got me worried; but KFC is rearing its ugly head once again by loudly touting its new kebab-like meals. I don’t believe for a second that tissue-paper-esque bread-like material holding that scabby piece of chicken drowning in mayonnaise will hold everything intact. I would be conveniencing myself if I spritzed a splash of french dressing on my shirt before I even entered the store. I trust any fast-food outlet kebab or wrap as much as I trust elevators; or for that matter anything else which promises me something then reneges on the deal.
My message to you grease monkeys trying to edge in on the respectable world of sandwichey snacks: stay clear. I don’t want your dirty influences spreading around – just look at what you’ve done to frozen hamburger patties. Once hulking chunks of cow meat; now mere strips of fatty mess which quiver in the frypan. Soon you’ll ensure all bread loafs are small, cut into only ten slices and baked ridiculously puffy.
In fact, KFC – don’t try and shift the blame back over to McDonalds as you usually do. Long-time readers of this site will know of my confusion masquarading as hatred for the Colonel (although I remain confused over the whole Did The Colonel Have A Dead Twin Or Not debate). The Colonel is dead and buried, and I think he should remain that way; yet KFC still insists on re-animating his corpse so he prances around our TV screens; haphazardly flinging his cane around and shouting about KFC like an insane speed-head.
I’m sorry, but if the real Colonel knew he was now playing slam-dunking basketballs and crying ‘Let’s haul ass!’ while dressed in a leather biker outfit, he’d be turning in his grave. In fact, the mere fact that Colonel is now using words like ‘ass’ gives me the creeps. Even creepier is noticing KFC staff with nametags like ‘Henny’. Genuine birthname or subliminal advertising? You decide. (I swear to god this is true – go to the KFC on George St in Sydney near the cinemas around 6pm on a weeknight).
KFC are famous for using signs outside their stores with ‘clip-on’ lettering, advertising their latest deal. I was admittedly alarmed when I noticed a sign recently announcing ‘COLONEL CHICK3N BURGS0R’. They’re either trying far too hard, or they’ve got nerd employees.
Yet even fast food chains barely remoted to hamburgers are beginning to join in on the lame hamburgers game. Eat a Taco Bell “Bellburger”, and for a week afterwards you’ll be reminiscing about how great it is not to have consistently violent dihorrea. Once they’ve contributed to the downfall of the once-mighty hamburger, they’ll set their sights on bread. This is what I fear.
So I have a plan. Franklins are selling off some of their outlets, and I think I’m going to buy one of their supermarkets. You’ll find me in the bread aisle. The guy guarding the innocent white Toasty Loafs with a gun.