Thursday, 22 August 2013


THE FORK IN THE ROAD Had I opted for the Cronut Burger instead of the corn dog at the Food Building, I would be writing this from my hospital bed. Which would reek of vomit.

I don’t know what it is about the Ex but a weird spell comes over you and you eat shit you wouldn’t eat anywhere else, ever. You line up like sheep, patiently waiting for the privilege of overpaying for what is essentially just mediocre food-court slop, and then you go home and brag about it. (You: "I had the sweet potato fries with Nutella!" Me: "I'm sorry.") I, for example, sullied my toned, bronzed temple with a goddam jumbo corn dog. You think I’d ever eat a tube of “toss everything into the grinder till it stops oinking” out here in the real world? Hell no. 

But I’ll tell you, I’m thankful I opted for that instead of the Killer Cronut Burger. Because the food poisoning count is now up to 100 and although no one can say for legal reasons certain that the burger of doom is to blame, I’m tellin’ ya it’s to blame. I’ve had e Coli (thank you, Burger King, that pink patty you served me 15 years ago is the reason I haven’t darkened your doors since, although I must say the weight loss was fabulous) and I know the symptoms when I hear them. 

And to think I came within a hair’s breadth of buying one of those repulsive-looking things but was put off by the lineup. The lineup that eventually shifted, with some urgency, to the porta-potties and then to the emergency ward ... and possibly, when they can safely move again without fear of crapping their pants, to the lawyer's office.
Those poor people.