Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Passing of the King

I admit it. I went to Burger King. I wanted a vanilla milk shake, which didn't turn out as satisfying as I thought it would. Somebody fucked with the formula ... I remember the shake as being not as smooth, more icy, if I can describe it that way, than the one I had. Severe disappointment reigned.

And I also ordered chicken tenders -- I don't recall what they are called on the menu, but I know they are not called little pieces of ground, mashed, processed chicken pressed flat into the shape of crowns ... yes, fucking crowns, breaded and fried. At McDonald's, the chicken nuggets are ... well, nugget-shaped, kind of like fake cut-up pieces of chicken, dipped in some magical coating and fried up, which doesn't really fool anyone; but it's somewhat like eating real food, instead of eating fucking crowns.

The food isn't supposed to be part of this story, just a petty annoyance.

The Burger King is what I'm talkin' about here, that big-headed freak of an advertising gimmick wearing his royal robes, who will again make his Super Bowl appearance on commercials galore, and who is the subject of video games. Come on, people. This is fucking ridiculous. Video games ... I see a movie -- yeah, a movie, if Ernest can be the subject of a bunch of movies, so can the big-headed, smiling freak.

Burger King used to mean something ... the food was supposed to be better than McDonald's, kind of like real food ... yeah, we knew it really wasn't all it was cracked up to be, but tell me what ever is. But the burgers were fire-grilled, right before your eyes, with real ingredients, Heinz Ketchup, a real brand, instead of that McDonald's stuff they tried to pass off as ketchup, when we knew it wasn't even catsup, instead of already-wrapped-up burgers that were sitting in a bin under a heat lamp that were cooked on a grill out back somewhere out of sight.

And McDonald's had that damn stupid Ronald McDonald, who, when visiting the local "restaurant," would get in your face, invading your space, and the Hamburglar and that purple thing, whatever that was ... or maybe it wasn't purple and I'm thinking of some TV show ... I don't remember; but you know what I mean. At McDonald's, I felt assaulted. McDonald's was for kids, parents standing around, smoking in the parking lot.

Burger King, on the other hand, was for the connoisseur of fine fast foods, for the discriminating, adult palate. This was no place for children.

Yesterday, I walked into Burger King. And I was immediately confronted by a big-ass Burger King smiling head right there in front of me on a display that advertised Burger King bobble-heads. Collect all 8! NFL Burger King bobble-heads. I am all for David Letterman throwing them off the roof ... all 8 of them. Flash forward to the year 2065 ... and at Christie's, Lot Number 666, 8 Burger King bobble-heads for your consideration, in pieces, -- and with it, a box of little pieces of ground, mashed, processed chicken pressed flat into the shape of crowns ... yes, fucking crowns, breaded and fried, as fresh as the day they were made.

Oh, by the way, the chicken crowns ... don't eat them.

Posted by Bill at January 26, 2007 10:05 AM