Stuff You Should Know

The Half-Assed Gourmand #6


If you’re curious as to why I continue to keep dragging my feet on this G-Men Never Forget (1948) project it’s because I was sort of out of commission yesterday, thanks to the good people at McDonald’s. Here’s the poop (and I apologize for the atrocious pun in advance):

Mom and I left my house a little after ten a.m. yesterday to run some errands: I had to go by the bank, she had a few things to get at Publix (I needed some milk and O.J., so I went with her) and her favorite liquor store in Athens (a recent influx of “company” to sister Kat’s domicile kind of cleaned out the cabinet, as it were). On the way back, Mom suggests that we take our respective groceries back to our respective cribs and then treat ourselves to lunch under the Golden Arches.

Mom ordered a Big Mac Value Meal and I ordered a pair of double cheeseburgers with a small fries (for which she traded her large fries once we got situated at the table). I guess my eyes were bigger than my stomach because I finished one-and-one-half of the burgers and left a pile of spuds on my plate—but hey, I ate what I wanted so I was cool with that. I got another refill of orange soda (I don’t know why McDonald’s orange soda is so tasty—maybe because it’s not a carbonated brand like Fanta or Sunkist but just good ol’ Hi-C) and she dropped me off at Rancho Yesteryear when we were done.

I was sitting in front of the tube trying to work up the energy to watch another chapter of G-Men when I became aware of an ominous rumbling in my stomach area…and because I’d rather not get too graphic let’s just say that my lunch ended up arguing with my alimentary canal—so much so that they were forced to duke it out in the vicinity of my bathroom. So that kind of put the kibosh on any serial watching.

fleamarketMeanwhile, my father stops by my place after a not-so-prestigious day of flea marketing and we have a bit of a chat in the meantime. Dad has one of those old Ford panel vans that he tools around in, so much so that on the rare occasions when I’m riding shotgun I find myself humming the theme to Sanford and Son. He keeps it parked over at my place because the facilities at Kat’s are rather limited, and since he had nixed the idea of going out to the flea market again on Sunday (today) he asks me to call the house and ask Mom to come over so he can get a lift home.

I do this, and I think Mom shot over here in record time—only to throw open the front door, leap over my living room couch and make tracks for the bathroom. It did not take a rocket scientist to realize that she was suffering from the same effects of our McDonald’s feast as I was.

I called her later to apologize for suggesting we eat there, but she assured me that it wasn’t my fault—she had a feeling something like that was going to happen the second she tucked into that Big Mac. She even mentioned at lunch that this was her “Big Mac for the year”…and if experience is any teacher, she means it. So I apologize for keeping you in suspenders re: G-Men—I’ll try to continue it next Saturday.

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