beetrock

So yesterday I committed a crime. Forgive me, all the lefty, anti-corporate vegaquarians of the world, for I have sinned. I failed you in the worst way possible. I got a Big Fish sandwich at a Burger King along the Jersey Pike.

I urge everyone to note that my sin was not that of conviction, but rather one of expediency and despair. In addition to the BK, New Jersey Turnpike presented no option other than McDonalds, Popeyes or Nathan’s. Of course, some will say that I could’ve avoided this misdeed by dining on a Carvel cone. I admit to be indisputably guilty of a conservative “hot meal for dinner” mindset. I also have to admit that the sandwich was not bad. Bad, actually is not quite the word to describe it. Neither is disgusting. If there was a word in the English language that combined “repulsive,” “slimy” and “goodness,” it would best depict the experience of Big Fish consumption.

The BK fries brought back the joyous taste of the time when I began my slow crawl through the thorny American dream terrain and paid my dues to the immigrant shit-job workers union. Credibly better than McDonalds version, the fries created a nice contrast to the Big Fish, and tasted of that delicious saturated- and trans-fat indulgence that I remembered from 10 years ago. Finally, the DrPepper, also a ghost of those times, humored the meal with a nice bouquet of corn-syrup and artificial flavor. Ahhhh, it’s nice to know that some things are forever.