McCrap, I did it again...

Long ago and far away there was a place called George Webb and a section of the Milwaukee Journal known as “The Green Sheet.” What does an oddly colored comics page and a restaurant have in common – that's an easy on e, the George Webb coupon of course. Clip that baby out (it was usually right under “Ask Andy”) and then off to the hamburger parlor for the six burgers for a buck deal, with fired onions!. That was fast food at the time and was looked down upon as is fast food to this very day. I can well remember cruising to an aging aunts house with the car windows down in the dead of winter so she wouldn't find out mom had feds us George Webb for dinner.

Truth is George Webbs was (and is still) one of the best burgers around, though sadly one has to travel all the way back to Milwaukee if interested. It was a place that actually gave a damn about its food and though rapidly prepared, there was still quality. Enter the Clown. I can;t be sure when it happened exactly, but the Golden Arches sprung up on Highway 100 and Burleigh bringing cheap greasy burgers filled with mostly ketchup and mustard as well as a pedofilic looking clown named Ronald. In my mind clowns have as much to do with hamburgers as a squintchy eyed sailor has to do with fried chicken. The idea was to get them start young and keep them coming back for more, and keep coming they did as the sign touted, “Over a Billion Burgers Served.” The burgers (not promising anything here meat-wise) were horrid and the deluge of condiments they were served with did little to hide the nastiness within, but they were fast and cheap as Charlie Sheen's dates.

Now fast forward from the Triassic to present and I do still find myself eating there from time to time. Perhaps my rapidly fading memory keeps me from remembering the greasy salty disaster called the Big Mac, that sits at the bottom of my stomach like a lump of wet concrete. The burger I had today had to have been dredged in salt then dropped in a hot grease pit for cooking. Shamefully I admit I ate it, and yes, the lump of wet concrete is there. The young lad that sold me the McShitwich convinced me that I should get a cup with a sticker on it. Not sure what was important about the sticker, but he seemed adamant so I went along. Turns out it was a contest – I was hoping to win a free stomach pump, but as with the food, I was a loser.

The cure for this particular malady is to find better spots to eat, and perhaps wear a rubber band on the wrist to be snapped viciously to remind oneself that the join is mcpoison on a bun. Sadly up in the Far West Valley here there aren't many choices, as yet. Mostly chain restaurants and few if nay of the wondrous Ma and Pa cafes – certainly (and sadly) no George Webb.