I got thinking about fast food today.
Jack in the Box, in particular.
You see, Jack in the Box recently expanded into Colorado, and now I'm starting to see their creepy little white clown head mascot pop up everywhere.
I refuse to eat at Jack in the Box for a couple of reasons. One, their website fails to mention the little incident they had back in the 90's. Remember that one? The one where they were serving up burgers swimming in E. coli? Yeah, they kind of hoped you forgot about that. I can't really, since one of my cousins bit into one of those burger-flavored petri-dishes and damn near died. But that's not the main reason I won't eat there. Nope, the main reason can be summed up in two words:
Jack Sauce.
That's the stuff they used to put on their burgers. Jack Sauce. I'm guessing it was probably that Thousand Island + ketchup combo that so many fast food places use, but still, you couldn't come up with a better name than Jack Sauce? For all I know, it could taste like chocolate gold, but all I can see in my head is biting into a burger dripping with some fry-cook's spooge. I know I'm not the only one to think that, either.
This really can't be a surprise to them. In fact, looking at their website, I see they've actually changed the name from Jack Sauce to Jack's Famous Secret Sauce, which is almost worse. Like Jack has been saving up his special sauce for your burger. Only now, instead of a fry-cook, I picture a swarthier Larry Dallas from Three's Company saying, "I've been working on something JUST for you, but DON'T TELL ANYONE! It's a SECRET!", while he works himself up into a lather, followed by a creepy wink.
Even if it is the Thousand Island concoction, who the fuck asks for salad dressing on a hamburger? If you are going to do that, you might as well ask for a donut dipped in Liquid Plummer. It makes about as much sense. I truly believe if you walked into Charlie Trotter's restaurant and asked for a steak smothered in salad dressing, the cook should be able to come out and legally beat you to death. Even more, I don't think a jury in the world would convict him. "Well, your honor, first he asked for salad dressing on his steak, then he shoved a twice-baked potato down his pants, and walked out wearing shoes made of Legos. Clearly, he was derranged."
Case dismissed.
Maybe it's just the world we live in now, or just the fact that I have the emotional development of a 13-year-old, but I'm thinking you should leave the word "Jack" out of most restaurants. I'll give you pepper-jack cheese, but really, the Jumbo Jack? It is physically impossible for me to tell a 16-year-old counter worker that I would love a Jumbo Jack, without giggling like mental patient. Because, really, who wouldn't enjoy a Jumbo Jack, when you get right down to it? Trust me, you ask for a Jumbo Jack anywhere else, you will have a court date in your future. Learned that the hard way.
They also serve something called a Bonus Jack. I'll be honest with you, one Jack is really all I'm good for. I'm too tired for a Bonus Jack. As the great Clevon Little once said, "Baby, I am not from Havana."
Now, I'm off to Carl's Jr. for a Thick and Juicy.
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