I’m ashamed of my meal, but proud of my daughter. She took artistic license–probably because she didn’t want to reference her dad on twitter–but this was my sandwich–at 3″ x 3″ inches of dry, chewy tastelessness of it.
It was like this: we were in a hurry and didn’t want to take the time to go to a real restaurant, so we went to Wendy’s, but we don’t generally eat this stuff and the menu confused me–all the sandwiches have nicknames that aren’t all that illuminating, and a bunch of the sandwiches cost five or six bucks but then there are options for “meals” so I panicked and asked the clerk: I just want a plain old burger with some ketchup and onions.
Note: I said onions. Plural. It’s funny how they missed on that, but seized on the word “old.” Serves me right, though. I’m the one who pulled into Wendy’s. I’m the one who bowed to the pressure of that big bright board of choices, and the line forming behind me. I got what I deserved. I guess.
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