Showing posts with label McDonald's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label McDonald's. Show all posts

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Two all-beef patties, special snark, lettuce, cheese

If you're a "sweet, sweet man" who's an average-Joe version of Adrian Monk -- albeit one who just happens to have consumed his 25,000th Big Mac -- you know what that makes you today?

"America's saddest man."

No, it must be so. It was on Gawker.

Because, obviously, there's nothing more pathetic than eating two Big Macs a day, just about, for the last 39 years. And nothing stranger than saving the receipts. Or packing a couple for road trips . . . just in case.

There's nothing in the world more worthy of ridicule than that. Not even being Arnold Schwarzenegger.

A WORKING SHMOE who loves him some Big Macs (and is very, very thorough about it) is way sadder than fathering a bastard child -- or is it two? -- during your marriage, then watching your wife and your four legitimate kids squirm in the TV lights after your sins come to haunt them.

Nah, Don Gorske of Fond du Lac, Wis., is the freak here. And it's just like a bunch of rube cheeseheads in flyover country to celebrate a sad, pathetic specimen such as that.

Ergo, let's laugh at the freaks. The laughable freaks, that is, not the heavy-hitter, "serious news" freaks. In a world ruled tag-team style by snark and unseriousness, it's important to keep these things straight.

Except when they're gay.

And you have to admit Mr. Gorske of Fond du Lac, Wis., and all that saturated fat is sooooooo "gay," though not gay. OK?

Don't think about it. Laugh at the freak. This one, not that one.

I admit it; I was about to do the same damned thing -- right in this space. But then I thought about it.

Guess that makes me one up on American media culture, but probably not on Don Gorske of Fond du Lac, Wis., and "sweet, sweet man" status. If ever I ate my 25,000th Big Mac (and there's no chance of that at this late date), I doubt the whole town would come out to celebrate me and my digestive feat.

A few, though, might drop by to wonder "How come that sorry son of a bitch ain't had a heart attack yet?"