I Tried to Conquer the White Castle Crave Case, Like a Total Fucking Boss
Spellbound, I sat there, still too drunk to drive, riding shotgun, my Crave Case in my clutches. The caloric aroma of Flavor Country beckoned, filling the cabin with a tasty haze of grease, gristle, and fun that permeated everything and undoubtedly hurt the car’s Kelly Blue Book value. Naysayers had attempted to derail my conquest, trying to coax me into more appropriately-sized and fiscally-responsible White Castle menu items that were all less American than the twenty-dollar Crave Case. Fortunately, though, I was still belligerently tipsy enough then to loudly shoot their qualms down in the name of “not fulfilling my appetite or my destiny.”
Back home on the couch, my sweatpants and wifebeater both aching to harbor more stains, I was ready for glory. The doubters lounged about, snacking on their paltry portions and quibbling over what to watch on Netflix like a bunch of catty moms on diets. Their lack of priorities was not my concern. I tossed open my Case and was met with a cloud of musky deliciousness. Giddy, tingly, and partially-aroused, I gripped the first burger and threw it back in two bites, its meaty tenderness shooting pleasure tremors to every corner of my body.
It was an absolute frenzy, like when piranhas detect blood in the water. I became a one-man swarm of gnashing and munching, furiously trying to pack as much hot, pink meat into my hot, pink mouth as possible, and the first ten were soon devoured. Nothing remained from them except their empty containers and some errant pickle shards that would later get matted into the carpet. I stopped to catch my breath, realizing this combination of burger excitement and being in terrible shape had me disgustingly sweaty.
The drunkenness, my sweet boozy euphoria, began subsiding and a wicked hangover began to brew. My meat-fueled ecstasy had been suddenly shattered and an existential crisis loomed. Was there no more to my being than beautiful eyes and free time spent gorging on mini hamburgers?
I closed the blinds. I told the loafing skeptics it was to help with the glare, but really I just didn’t want the world to see my self-loathing self strung out on trans fats and sadness. At one point I thought I was crying, but I later figured that it was probably just more sweat. I did continue eating, out of nothing more than inertia, even though I feared I was wasting and shortening my already-brief existence. My jaws continued churning, but my mind kept drifting. Dejected, I looked down, but then realized that I was only ten White Castle burgers away from my excessively-unhealthy goal! My life, once again, had purpose.
The next seven were absolute heartache. I wasn’t hating myself anymore, but my actual heart started sputtering and nearly stalling like it was an old outboard motor. My jowels ached. My stomach stretched like a bathing suit being borrowed by a fat friend. But my passion continued to burn strong.
With three to go, I knew the end was with close. Tunnel vision took over. It was as if I was a lion in pursuit of a gazelle or a hockey dad with a tire iron threatening another hockey dad in the arena parking lot. There was pain. There was anguish. But, when the crumbs cleared, there was me, basking in triumph amidst the debris from thirty mini burgers.
I had filled up on meat and bread, so I let my disbelieving friends fill up on sour grapes.
And yes, as expected, I spent the two out of the next three-and-a-half hours on the toilet with post-consumer content surging out of my fart hatch.