It’s November! In the U.S. of A., that means Thanksgiving, which means turkey, canned cranberry sauce, and a little something I like to call giving and sharing.

As in, McDonald’s gave me the shaft, and I’m going to share it with you.

I will start this post the way I had originally intended it:


(insert homer simpson drooling sound here)

*For a limited time only, while supplies last. Price and participation may vary. Your experience may vary. The McRib is not called the McPork, so do not complain it does not taste like pork. We will nod while you complain, and we will mock you after you leave. Try dipping your french fries in a vanilla milkshake. Doesn’t that rock? All hail to Ronald McDonald.  

That’s right, yo. I was going to blog about the barbecue saucy majesty that is the McRib. I have no idea why I find this sandwich so appealing. I live in Texas. Better barbecue does exist. In fact, there is a great little joint just down the road from me. Shout out to the Bar-B-Que Depot!

The McRib patty tastes and looks like those little “barbecued pork” patties you get in the cheap TV dinners. The ones with names like Hungree Gent and Eating Person For To Buy This Very Happy Food. I guess I love the McRib because it only happens once a year, like the Superbowl and me being wrong.

Ha-ha, I keed.

I am never wrong.

So there I was, wide-eyed and innocent, making my merry way to the local Mickey D’s. I pulled up to the drive-thru ordering thing. I requested a McRib Value Meal, a Coke, and one order of child-sized fries for my dog. (My dog turns 12 later this month. He deserves french fries.)

otherwise, he becomes angry.

I received my food, my change, and my straw. I drove home. And I broke the cardinal rule of ordering drive-thru: I did not inspect my food before I left. Once I made it home, I plunked down in front of the TV and started watching Glee. I opened my McRib box and discovered this atrocity:

THIS CRAP?!?!?!?

A McRib patty on a regular hamburger bun.

No special McRib-limited-time-limited-quantities-McBun. My sandwich was dumped between two plain Quarter Pounder buns. It looks like the McRib equivalent of a muffin top. I know what you do to my body, McDonald’s. I do not need your sandwiches to physically remind me of it.

Anonymous blog person: So what did you do? You packed it up and took it back, right? You complained and got your money back, right? Or at least coupons for free food?

Me: Uh, Glee was on . . .

Anonymous blog person: You are frickin’ kidding me. You did nothing?

Me: (mumbling) I ate it . . .

Anonymous blog person: But it wasn’t right!

Me: Technically, it was. The bun was wrong, that was all. I guess they ran out of buns. They use special McRib buns, you know.

Anonymous blog person: Did they tell you, when you ordered, that they were out of special McRib buns? That it was going to look like something a deprived, overweight fifth-grader would make for an after-school snack?

Me: No . . .

Anonymous blog person: Did you at least call and say something?

Me: Hey, a picture of a kitty!

All right, no. I did nothing. I ate it. I mean, come on, it’s just bread. It looked funky, and the bun, because it was not special, became soggy after a few minutes from the rib sauce, but . . .

Did I mention it was for a limited time only?

Anonymous blog person: Soooo . . . I read a post titled McRage, hoping for a fast food beat-down, and this is all you give me? You, sitting on your couch watching Glee, eating a sandwich that later you will complain futilely about?

Me: More kitties!


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