Completely relaxed, I settle into the couch, unwilling to walk the fifteen feet to the bed or clean up the Funyun pile perched on my stomach. It’s the sweet purgatory between consciousness and sleep. Colors, noise, and violence continue to blare out of the TV. Solace comes from knowing that upon waking up fast-food restaurants will be serving breakfast again.
The morning sun beams through the windows and unapologetically punches me square in the face. Instant confusion and anger mount. I sit up, dusting the Funyun crumbs out of my body hair. Anti-solar sentiments subside as I’m calmed by the prospect of a McDonald’s or Taco Bell breakfast.
Outside I stumble into a fast-food Mecca. It must’ve sprung up overnight along with that potion bazaar and fight club for ex-presidents. Better still, it’s morning and yet all the traditionally non-breakfast-serving fast-food places are open.
Against a lifetime of better judgment I step into the first door, an Arby’s (1), and am greeted with a menu that’s for once not solely comprised of clammy, moist, room-temperature meat highlighting questionable choices. This breakfast menu is revolutionary. I devour a curly-fry hash brown cluster infused with fried morsels of roast beef that’s served with a cheddar-flavored dipping sauce that I’m presuming the FDA won’t allow them to technically call cheese. I can safely attest this is the best Arby’s experience anyone has ever had.
I have no desire to press my Arby’s luck; also, I’m infatuated by the orange chicken aroma pumping out of the adjacent Panda Express (2). Feeling too lazy to read or speak coherently, I step in and point at an egg thing on their apparent breakfast menu and grunt. A minute later I’m greeted with an omelet packed with chopped orange chicken, peppers, onions, and spice. It’s Asian fusion at its finest, east and west perfectly merged by what I can only assume are ancient Chinese secrets.
With no shame and still hungry, I locate a Checkers/Rally’s (3) across the street. Breakfast here is simple and quick, as the menu contains only a single item in different sizes. Picture a carton full of salad, but replace the lettuce with chopped bacon and any topping with hot cheese, fries, and more ranch dressing. It’s unsurprisingly sponsored by NASCAR and served with a liability waiver.
People are starting to stare as my impromptu food crawl continues. I shuffle in with a crowd to Popeye’s (4). Inside it’s like a cafeteria lunch line. Biscuits, gravy, commemorative gravy buckets—ooh, heaven is a place on Earth. There’s a gravy trough floating buttermilk biscuits to us. I’m fixated on it and my heart swells with patriotism. Breakfast nirvana nears.
I can’t explain my ravenous appetite. Typically I would’ve barfed two restaurants ago. Though, typically, I wouldn’t find myself at Sbarro (5) unless I was trolling for disappointment or a non-traditional stomach pump. Here I am, victimized again by highway hypnosis, and now tonsil-deep with a surprisingly delicious breakfast Stromboli. A chorus of egg, cheese, pepperoni, bacon, and mushroom dance on my palate. Other senses turn down; my prejudices melt away and a single tear rolls down my cheek.
I know this bender’s taken months off of my heart’s expectancy. I want to stop, but outside I’m confronted with a White Castle (6) that must’ve just now materialized. Crave Case of mini burgers topped with yolk with extra dipping yolk on the side? Yes, please, you beacon of indulgence. I gorge, not even caring that I’ll be keeping it diarr-real this afternoon.
I squint, squirming as I try to avoid the sun in my eyes. Baffled again, I sit up on my couch and sweep the Funyun crumb from my body thickets. I process it all and check my phone. It’s too late for fast-food breakfast; time to just grab some McNuggets and fall back asleep.