Hey Maru I’m back and I was totally successful in getting a Baconator. What was gravy on my pudding was the cashier girl was really fat and black and I didn’t flirt with her at all, even if the pimply redheaded ogre making those nasty CBRN fries said I was ‘cute’ to the cashier. Maybe she said it a little TOO loudly, because I heard it and I was not impressed. I was also not impressed with the lack of ketchup in the ketchup wells. No ketchup!? Let’s be real guys, the only reason you all eat freedom fries is so you can slather them with ketchup. This is out-in-the-open fact. And there wasn’t a single drop in the ketchup wells. I asked the fatty cashier if she was planning to refill the ketchup wells, but she shrugged her flat iron steak shoulders and handed me a few ketchup packets. Packets!? I know, right? All I wanted was to fill up four or nine of those white ketchup cups and dunk my freedom fries until they tasted like nothing but grease and processed tomato paste, but what am I supposed to do with three lousy packets of ketchup? It’s not even a PACK of ketchup. It’s a pack-ette, which is like a when Michelangelo from TMNT announced “… dudes and dud-ettes …” It’s decidedly feminine and I don’t like it one bit.
Suffice to say I made due with the hint of ketchup and set my sights on the main course: The Baconator. Two all beef patties made fresh when you walk in the door like they were told ahead of time you were on the way and they timed it perfectly so it’s just coming out of the patty-maker when you step into the threshold of juicy burger paradise, two slices of thick, artery clogging 100% American cheese (no immigrant cheese on this All-American patriot), and six (6) strips of unbelievably greased and smoke-flavor enriched bacon. Let’s face it, the bacon is the only reason you get the Baconator. It isn’t called the Beefonator, though THAT’S awesome on a whole other level, and they don’t call it the Cheesonator (Again, awesometude set aside for this review).
Unwrapping the Baconator you really experience the terror first hand. I mean, the burger is intimidating on the menu, let alone when the weight of it nearly snaps your cheap, thin plastic tray in half. Not even the colossal mass of the large coke can compare to the leviathan qualities the Baconator possesses. So that first face to face, up close, good-god-it’s-stalking-me-and-we-aren’t-even-moving bout of terror is really something to cherish.
Above is a Baconator. Serious Business here, guys. Proceed with extreme caution.
On a side note, if you haven’t taken a lifetime of mixed martial arts, or you aren’t licensed to carry concealed firearms you might want to go to the Burger King and get a Quad Stacker. You have crawl before you can wrestle fourteen tonnes of molten burger into your gullet. Don’t be ashamed, I’ve seen grown men weep in fear before even taking the first bite.
Whoa! This isn’t the standard for Baconators and though it would be a tempting battle, I’m glad there is no way I can order this monster.
Anyway, long story short: It’s delicious! Despite all odds, I gave the entire dining experience a 9 out of 10 possible American Flags. I highly recommend Audie Murphy, Navy SEALS, and Sylvester Stallone pop in for a quick bite in between being seriously awesome. Also those who wish to commit suicide but don’t have the guts to pull the trigger. It’ll be quick and relatively painless. I mean, after the Baconator punches straight out of your stomach and eats you. Everyone else: there is a pretty sweet deal at fourteen hippies before quitting, let’s see if this year’s can stand up to the challenge!
Until next time!
EDIT: The real thing looked like this:
Not as pretty, I know, but guys, taste outweighs sight here by a country mile. That’s like three city miles. Maybe four.