The Five Stages Of The Baconator

You can sense it too, huh? Intriguing…

I purchased and devoured a Baconator a few nights ago. I refuse to use the word “ate” when describing what happened between me and that burger, because “ate” is open to interpretation. If I said “ate,” one could assume that I cut it up and consumed it daintily with a fork, or that I tried to use some manner of social grace when I stuffed the half-pound of food-thing into my mouth. No, I devoured it. If you had seen me devouring it, you could’ve mistaken it as part of a Discovery Channel series about a tribe of delirious cavemen being brought back to life, and by mistake, one went to Wendy’s.

All worthy ingredients.

The Baconator is man’s ultimate triumph over beast. Many say that the moment of our success came when we invented hunting tools, like spears and knives, but I believe that it came when someone watched “Terminator” and realized that they could get sort of the same affect with animal flesh. The Baconator isn’t just a triumph over creatures; it’s adding insult to injury. Devouring one is like telling all domesticated animals, “Shit’s about to get way worse. And I’m not sorry.”

I don’t eat a lot of fast food anymore, in a sort of half-hearted attempt to not die before I turn 24. So, maybe that’s why I felt this way as I shoved the burger into my face. It was a mix of emotions that I’d never felt before. Some might call it the Kublar-Ross model or The Five Stages Of Dying, but I would refer to it as The Five Stages Of The Baconator.


The first thing I noticed was the amount of grease that dripped off of this masterpiece of shitty eating habits, an amount that almost made its own dipping sauce. There was so much grease that I could’ve flavored my fries with it. “Why am I eating this?” I asked myself. I can’t be. There’s no way that I just spent almost eight dollars on the half-pound Baconator meal. (I chose the half-pound, because it gave me at least some time to estimate when my heart would abruptly stop.)

This isn’t possible. There can’t be this much grease or bacon or sloppily added mayonnaise. Wendy’s wouldn’t do this to people, would they? The little girl on the logo becomes the devil, and the burger in my hands becomes a portal into her special hellish temple, with beef patty demons between two buns of agonizing despair.


Oh fuck you, burger.

I bought this damn thing. Why did I? I could’ve bought a triple pack of Lethal Weapon 2, 3 and 4 and lived longer than if I had spent my kind-of hard earned money on this glob of nasty. I could throw it away, despite the argument that if I dispose of it, I would be spitting in the face of third-world children who starve every day. However, I’ve rationalized that if you gave this to a starving child, their body wouldn’t be able to handle it, and collapse from  system-shock. To successfully eat a Baconator, you need a digestive tract that’s handled every triple Hot Pocket meal and vending machine burrito that’s been thrown at it.

I have that digestive tract, and I’ll be damned if I let it go to waste.

But still, I hate you, Baconator, for existing. For breathing, and I wouldn’t put it past you if you were still alive. There’s so much cow and pig inside of you that there has to be at least one farm animal still suffering silently underneath the ketchup blanket. Did the marketing meeting of your fabled creation consist of:

Executive: Let’s kill Americans and let’s do it slow…..

Board Room: (Applause)


I could give it back. I could go back to the counter and say “I’d like a refund. I don’t have enough to cover my funeral,” or “I forgot that I had a marathon to run tomorrow, and this thing is really going to hamper the eighth mile.” The cashier would wink at me, and say “I understand, Sir. You don’t need to tell me why you’re making an intelligent choice.” They would then put on a hazmat suit and dispose of the monstrosity in the white paper bag, preferably with a mix of flame and then freezing, followed by more flame, in order to ensure that it wouldn’t survive to breed.

Or I could eat it, and exercise a lot the next day. No, that would take will power and a need for self-improvement. Most of my needs revolve around the pointless purchasing of Special Edition films after I’ve already bought the first release, and just one more shot, because I have to drive. I would never be able to justify the Baconator with some sort of bodily reformation technique. The Baconator would sit in my stomach, as the acids inside of me tried in vain to destroy it before surrendering to god-like forces beyond their comprehension.


I don’t cry often, but Taylor Swift could’ve written a song about tear drops falling into my Dr. Pepper and my shaking hands gripping the sides of the stained paper holding the abomination. The sadness gripped me like a child who had just witnessed a decapitation, or an adult that had just witness two decapitations. I was stunned by it. Was I tying my own noose by devouring this burger? Would it be quicker to shoot myself?

Would there be any pain?

The Baconator sat in front of me for a long while. I knew that I had to finish it. I had too much chest hair to throw it away. It was this sense of inevitability that added to the cancer that is the Baconator. I’m no martyr. The world gains nothing from me devouring it and simply loses a few hushed giggles. Is it destiny to devour this thing? Some plan devised from an omnipotent power? What kind of deity would put this in front of me? Would I reach heaven, moments after I took the final bite, simply thinking I’ve ascended and relax, breath slowing down, into my chair? And would some angelic being say, when I arrived “Oh, the idiot. Here’s a list of places where we put people like you. You can choose from A) the toilet, or B) you’ll be reincarnated as a broken lawn chair. Choose in the next second, because here comes the groin kick.”


This is my Baconator and I shall live with it. I have spent for it and it lays in front of me now, representing everything I am and everything that I will be in this life. I may not eat the fries and the Dr. Pepper might get watery with melted ice, but the journey of the Baconator is mine and mine alone.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. You can’t defeat me Wendy’s, for I am strong in soul and body and mind. You can’t prove anything to me with your sloppy attempt at the H-Bomb. I will conquer you and your burger and I will leave here with full stomach, and probably farting.

And I did.

This photo was taken just before the photographer’s eyes started bleeding.


2 responses to “The Five Stages Of The Baconator

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