The Perfect Song Blog

I finally started my Christmas shopping the other night. Went straight to the mall from work, rode the escalator up to the food court that overlooks the main floor of stores. I walked from restaurant to restaurant. No hot dogs, though they’re tempting. Pizza? Too bland. Chinese. Pass tonight. I wandered over to Burger King and looked over the menu.

And did the inexplicable. I ordered a Double Whopper with cheese. As the waitress handed it to me I realized the Devil does exist and he lurks at fast food restaurants. I suppose no good decision can be made at a fast food place but what I did was just plain dumb. Double Whoppers should be reserved only for football players, over-sized wrestlers and starving rednecks.

God, the thing had the heft of a bowling ball.

I sat down, unwrapped it and just shook my head. There are a lot of things wrong in America and sandwiches like this are one of them.

Two black teen guys sat kitty corner from me. The one on the left played with his cell phone as only a confident, energetic high school male can. He talked into the machine with it about six inches from his mouth. He and his friend laughed. I thought they were laughing at me but they were looking at someone behind me.

A young woman with black hair and clothes to match sat at another table, leaning back against the wall talking on her phone.

I lifted the Burger King monster to my mouth and realized I couldn’t open my jaws wide enough to take a real bite. Reddish yellow liquid drizzled lazily down my fingers. I laid it back down. This wasn’t a supper. It was an event. A sticky, sloppy, awkward event.

By the time I finished, my wrapper was a battlefield of pieces of lettuce, tomatoes, onions, teeth-mangled pickles and the reddish yellow goo formed by the combination of ketchup and creamy mayonnaise.

Goo made itself at home in my mustache and beard. My fingers were tacky.

I sat before this mess and felt embarrassed.

The two guys continued talking into the cell and laughing. I finally realized they were joking around – by cell – with one of the cooks in Burger King. I wrapped up my mess and walked past the girl in black who must have been a clerk in Macy’s or the jewelry store, one of those places that hires beautiful people, tells them to dress like a million bucks and pays them minimum wage.

“You’re a liar,” she said into the phone, smiling. “Yes. You are.” You could tell she really liked the guy she was calling a liar.

I continued on. There’s only one place to go after downing a Double Whopper with cheese.

The Men’s room. Double the soap and hold the towels. I’ll be after them shortly.