If my spirits were high at first, reality was about offer me the first of several severe bitch slaps to bring me back down to earth. I placed the sandwich in the microwave and left for a moment to refill my cup with some water. When I returned I was struck by an awful smell. It conjured images of beef being boiled in water.
No ... wait.
It conjured images of the brown sludge that sticks to the side of a pot full of water with beef boiling inside. Strangely, when I opened the microwave to remove the sandwich (yes I was still willing to try it, but my resolve was nowhere near as strong) a wave succulent smelling juicy beef aroma washed over me. No, I'm not kidding. It smelled pretty damn good. I lowered my face toward the opening of the sandwich's wrapper. It didn't smell as good, but it still seemed that it had pretty good potential to at the very least come close the Angus.
Skip to a minute or two later and my unwrapping of the sandwich. I could smell the sugary bun. The cheese had exploded in all directions like so much projectile vomit. I stuck a hand in to pry it from the wrapper and was treated to a bun that was thoroughly soaked with grease and cheese. It was like touching a sponge that had been left in a vat of lard. I pulled my hand away.
It felt pretty disgusting.
Knowing I must press on, I eventually worked it free from the wrapper. Cheese dripped from one corner, hardened, and formed a stalactite/mite-like column from the patty to the napkin it sat upon. The familiar feeling of not wanting to eat the sandwich nudged me. Of course I knew I would, but I had to take a moment to collect myself and work up the courage.
Finally, I took a bite, grimacing as the lower half of the bun coated my palm with grease and cheese. Ugh! Once again, totally unseasoned meatloaf was the first thing I thought of, contrasted by sesame seeds that were a near a state of petrifaction. "Hey, YOU try spending the last days of YOUR existence being this close to the BIG AZ Burger," those seeds would surely respond.
Before I could even force myself to swallow, I began an inner debate. How many bites were fair to limit myself to taking? I knew I didn't want any more, but I did want to give the sandwich a fair shot. Against my better judgment I settled on 3. I took another bite, and on the first chew I was treated to a delicious and juicy bite of burger. But that's "bite" as in singular, not plural. That's because after chewing just once my jaw was jarred by a large chunk of bone or tendon or something. My hand instantly shot out for the nearest napkin, edge of my shirt or even jacket, anything capable of holding a mouthful of half chewed Big Az Burger with Cheese on a Bun.
Once rid of the meddlesome burger did I continue on and go for that third bite I promised myself? Fuck no. If there's anything that really grosses me out its bones or gristle in food where it doesn't belong: Ribs? That's Fine. Chicken thighs or drumsticks? Ok. Chicken strips? Nope. Burger ... obviously not.
Unable to take another bite, I put the Big Az where it should have gone in the first place, the Big Az Trashcan in the kitchen by the studio. I had a momentary flash of guilt for wasting the food. I mean, shit, a cow had DIED to become a Big Az Burger. That's when I realized that becoming a Big Az Burger was far more of an insult to the memory of said cow than my throwing the burger away could ever possibly be.