Fuck breakfast. Not breakfast foods, just breakfast the meal. It’s too goddamn early to be awake, let alone eating. And who can eat anyway when their guts are rolling harder than Andy Dick at a rave from last night’s bottle of bottom shelf whiskey? Not me, not usually anyway. But sometimes you just have to get some goddamn grease in your system to keep your stomach from eating your asshole. And when I think grease, I think about the golden arches.
I grew up poor. I know this because we called McDonald’s a restaurant and we went there for breakfast on Sundays like it was high fucking tea with the Queen mum. And the star of this meal was always the Big Breakfast. A fuck-ton of grease-laden mornin’ death all crammed into a big styrofoam container that’ll outlive you by a few hundred years. And it all comes with a tub or two of caramel colored high fructose death sauce, aka “syrup.”
And that’s still what it is. Except now they only use half the environment killing Styrofoam. Instead of a lid with proper thermal preserving properties we get this weird clear plastic lid embossed with the McDonald’s logo. Holy shit, it looks like the Lenin of fast foods all splayed out and sad. Come to think of it both probably decay at similar rates. But as bad as that mental image is the worst part is it lacks insulation leading to inevitable and undesirable side-effects.
Cold flapjacks. Fuck shit ass cock piss bitch cunt fart. Now I love the environment, don’t get me wrong. Trees are awesome and shit, but I’d sacrifice our children’s and their children’s children’s future for piping hot, butter-melting pancakes first thing in the morning. God I miss that top layer of Styrofoam. Fucking Captain Planet.
This biscuit isn’t too bad. But it isn’t too good. It’s just sort of there, but somehow you know you’d miss it if it was gone. This biscuit is to breakfast what a hand job is to casual sex. You don’t really need it, and it’s really not that fulfilling, but you’d sure miss it if it was gone. On a side note, both sometimes are in need of butter.
I love hash brown patties like this. I know they’re the bologna of potatoes, but I still love them even if they are made from bits swept off the floor and smashed together in a factory press operated by an immigrant laborer with questionable at best hygiene. That being said, when it comes to shitty hash browns McDonald’s wins the gold goddamn prize. Greasy and golden brown, they’re like eating the cast of Jersey Shore. Well almost; the hash browns don’t give you herpes.
Ok, so these patties have always worried me. Not because they look like a mole that was removed from Larry the Cable Guy’s gooch, but because of how they react within the gastrointestinal system. To put it gently, McDonald’s sausage is an investment; eat one in the morning and you’ll know it all day long with every foul-tasting belch that gurgles up from your grease-laden stomach. Work on that shit, Ronald, or at least throw some Tums and breath mints into this combo.
I’m not sure what to make of these eggs. Mostly because they seem to be exuding a sort of liquid. Normally I like things that exude liquids when hot *winkwinknudgenudgesaynomore* but I’ve never seen a scrambled egg sweat before. And given the flavor of these suckers I imagine they were included merely to soak up the grease leaking from the sausage patty. Sort of like a paper towel that came out of a chicken’s ass. Personally I’d rather eat that. Welp, time to break out the one sure cure for bland bullshit.
Ahh, that helped. That helped a lot. Now, I know a lot of you are thinking “you’re putting hot sauce on fast food eggs?” right now. It may seem as risky as shitting in a public restroom in New Delhi, but let’s face the facts here and realize that there’s not really any chance of it making me poop more. The McDonald’s alone will be adequate to make my colon reach critical mass. I will admit the spiciness could make things interesting, but I like to live dangerously. That’s why I don’t have health insurance. Well, that and poverty.
So they might be a little cold, but these cakes really aren’t too bad. Sure they’re packed with more chemicals than Charlie Sheen, but I kinda like them. The syrup is another story. It tasted like diabetes and kissing Wilford Brimley. That said it was high time these suckers got some doctoring as well.
And here’s where the strawberry preserves comes in. Sure they contain roughly as much fruit as a tall glass of Kool-aid, but it works with the syrup to make these rather ordinary cakes into a magically shitty taste treat. How do I describe the experience? It’s like going down on Strawberry Shortcake.
So, all in all, it’s not really that different than what it was twenty five years ago; a grease and chemical-laden platter impersonating a real breakfast. Not something I’d have again given the fact there are a million greasy spoon diners that serve far superior breakfast food, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected it to be. Basically, if you wake up drunk and need to eat somewhere within stumbling distance it’s not a terrible choice.
7/10
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