Hey everybody! So Nichols thoguht that the Packers would lose to the Bears? You know what I have to say to that?
Just goes to show him, God provides. And after a WEEK of calling and e-mailing him, I finally forced him to commit to a HUGE move...and that's going to get McRib (Homer Simpson drooling sounds.) Figured it would be a good peace offering. Hey, I'm tryin'. As a Christian, I'm tryin'.
I dunno why Nichols has been avoiding me like this. Not returning phone calls or emailing me back, but I figured it was on account of the Packers and him not having enough sense to be a Packer-backer and not a Bears fan. Oh well. Whatever. So I tried to let bygones be bygones and take him out to McDonald's for a McRib. He's not had one in years and...get this...doesn't "understand what all the furor is about." Oh he of little American values. You'd swear he lived in Madison.
"There are two things I don't comprehend," he tells me as I roll my eyes and continue towards those hallowed golden arches of Mickey D's. "If the McRib is that great, why don't they keep it on the menu all the time? And if it's not passable enough to be on the menu for good, why have it at all?"
Obviously the man doesn't know what good business decisions are made of.
"It's like this," I tells him. "You never know from one day to the next when it's going to be there. It's just like good luck, you never know when it's your day for it to strike you."
"So it's ephemeral?" he says to me. I don't know what the heck that college-boy, 50 cent word is supposed to mean, but I know it's got nothing to do with McRib. I press him on it.
"It comes and goes in fleeting movements. One never knows if they will be able to catch it in its quicksilver-like movements?"
"It's a gift from God," I tell him. "And God provides. When we walk into that Mickey D's, you'll know."
"Describe this McRib to me," Nichols asks.
What a dumbass. Might as well ask someone to describe the Mona Lisa to someone who has never seen it. It's like in that movie Mask, y'know? The one with Cher? Where that deformed kid gets asked by the blind chick to describe sunlight? I mean, whatareyagonnado? Anyway, I tell him about the hearty, meaty texture. I tell him about the rich sauce, the satisfying bun, and the pickles and the onions. Then I realize I'm drooling on myself like Pee Wee Herman at a Jenna Jameson flick.
"I remember it being like a cross between Spam and a hot dog, awash in barbecue sauce," Nichols says.
Sigh. People with no taste. Whatareyagonnado? Right? Hey Chi-town! Represent! What up, 312? Sorry, still love the Packers!
Anyway, Nichols goes on showing off his college degree, telling me that the McRib is the "perfect postmodern food."
"It is of the utter manufacture of man," he sez to me. "Pig parts, maybe if we're lucky, fused into an undulated cutlet. There is no 'rib' to it, yet that is what society wishes us to think. It is the capitalistic marketing machine, shoving red-sauce slathered mystery meat down our gullets and telling us to like it."
I dunno. Maybe his parents are cousins? Or maybe he's still just sore about the way the Packers beat those Bears! SUPER BOWL, BABY!
We get inside the McDonald's. Grimace never looked so good. I step up to the counter and order my McRib, counting the seconds until its juiciness squirts into my mouth. I wink at the girlie girl behind the register and make my order.
"I'm sorry, we no longer carry that," the zit-faced hag tells me.
I turn to Nichols.
"This is all YOUR fault, man!" I sez to him. "If you'd called me back sooner, we'd have our McRibs! Nectar of the God, man!"
"I think you mean 'nectar of the gods,'" the jackass sez.
"Spare me your anti-Christ, pagan garbage!" I shout back. "That isn't gonna cut it! You cost us our McRibs and there's no telling how long it will take to get them back! What is the point in living anymore? Why. Why? WHY?"
The moral of the story is this: never trust a liberal-loving, college educated, Bears fan. They'll fuck you out of your McRib every time! But God is on my side! SUPER BOWL, BABY!
Peace, love, and smoked BBQ,Kip
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