Let's Talk About The World's Largest Burger
If you happen to find yourself in Clearfield, PA, and you suddenly have the urge to eat so much meat that you die, you should really haul your fat self over to Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub, where they will make you a burger larger than a sheep and serve it to you on a rolling metal tray from an abandoned hospital that all the locals say is haunted. There's also a smaller version of the gigantic burger , but it is for little girls who dress up like princesses and drink fruit punch from Barbie tea sets in their bright pink bedrooms before watching High School Musical 2 and thinking Zac Efron is "rilly, rilly dreamy." And you're not a little girl, are you? You don't "totally want a pretty pony more than ANYTHING," right?
Right. You're a man. A sack of farts and sports trivia that drives a dirty pick-up truck and cuts down trees for a living. Or maybe you haul big metal pipes around a shipping yard or you drive an 18-wheeler full of nails or you're hired muscle for the mob. The point is, you're a tough son of a bitch who would chew through a lead pipe if it looked at him funny and... FUCK... being so goddamn masculine works up an appetite!!! So where do you turn when your guts are craving a burger, but one that just barely fits in the trunk of a mid-sized sedan? Dude, read the first paragraph of this post... it holds the answers to life, the universe, and everything, at least with regards to ridiculously-sized foodstuffs.
-If you get it with a bacon, you run the risk of your blood thickening up like homemade cream gravy and your heart slowing down to one beat every five minutes as it churns and churns, struggling to pump, but unable to do so because... as I said... your blood would now be a delicious topping for a chicken-fried steak. So be careful with that.
-Should the kitchen happen to overcook your massive, soul-destroying burger... making it completely gray all the way through and not leaving even a trace of delicious, juicy pink that tastes so nice like sex in the afternoon... just eat the damn thing. If you send it back, demanding another one cooked correctly, THANK YOU, the guy running the grill will come out through the swinging doors clutching two handfuls of whatever sharp objects he can find. Those sharp objects will go into your skull. Yes, you may be in the right, technically, but you'll also be dead by the hands of a Puerto Rican line cook that not a court in the world would convict. So don't be "that guy."
-I know this probably isn't the case, but I'm imagining them putting mustard on the burger with those roller brushes you use to paint the walls of a house and, for whatever reason, this mental image makes me smile like a lottery winner getting a handjob during the World Series (where he's sitting in the luxury box watching his favorite team win with a walk-off grand slam).
-If you go in and order one of these, but vegetarian... like, just a bunch of Boca Burger patties all smooshed together in a giant ball called "yuk,"... you will be snapped on so hard by all the other patrons in the restaurant, you'll shit yourself where you stand and then your brain will melt out your nose because shame in such concentrated amounts is hotter than the surface of Mercury.
-I guess my point is this: I'm planning a road trip to Clearfield, PA. Who's in? We're going to find this place, order this burger, and we're going to eat it with our hands like our cavemen ancestors did with a freshly-killed sabertooth tiger. But first, before the primal eating and the worshiping to the meat gods, I'm going to fuck it. That's right, FUCK IT. Because that is one sexy-ass burger, right there. Mmmm... MMMM!!! S'up, baby, my name's C-Dog... oooh, you pretty...