Sunday, November 21, 2010

The McRib Experiment: The Fine Print

In my continuing quest to persuade my fiance Theresa to eat a McRib, I've now had to resort to, in the words of former President George W. Bush, some trickeration.  Previously, Theresa turned down my offer of ten dollars (eighty-seven cents Canadian) to partake of the tasty McSandwich so I was forced to develop Plan B, which went something like this:

Completely out of the blue, I presented Theresa with a certificate for a free "expectation free" massage, and when I say "expectation free," I trust that all of you in committed relationships will know precisely what I'm talking about.  It was just going to be a massage.  That's all. 


So a few nights ago, after a long day's work, Theresa decided to redeem her certificate.  "This is really nice," she said.  "What did I do to deserve this?"

"What did you do?  Nothing.  I just know you've been working hard, so I thought I'd help you relax," I said, stifling a sinister chuckle.  "Just lie down and let me take it from there."

So she received her half-hour massage.  All humility aside, I think I did a pretty good job.

"That was nice," said Theresa.  "I feel so spoiled."

"Well, you know, you did have the certificate.  When something's written out like that, you're kind of obligated to follow through, right?"

"That's right, and I appreciate it."

The trap, my friends, had been set.

The next day, she called me at work.  "I just wanted to thank you again for pampering me last night.  It was very thoughtful of you."

"Yeah, well, you did read the fine print, right?"

Blurry I know, but you get the idea.
I forgot to tell you earlier, at the very bottom of the certificate, I included a line of very small print, and I do mean very small.  I think I set the point size at six.  Five, perhaps.  Also, I changed the font color from standard black to a pale gray, not too much different than the color of the paper the certificate was printed on.

 But it was there so it counts, right?  Who's with me on this?

"The fine print?  What are you talking about?"

"The fine print on the certificate.  Wanna know what it said?"

"I'm not eating a fucking McRib."

"Au contraire," I said, because whenever possible I like to work a little French into the conversation.  "According to the certificate, which is now valid because you accepted the promised massage, the bearer must consume one McRib sandwich."

"Dammit," said Theresa, "I should've known there was a catch.  And here I've been thinking how wonderful you are for taking care of me just because you wanted to.  But you didn't really want to, did you?  It was all part of your plan to make me eat a stupid McRib."

"Uh, well, no," I said, trying desperately to dig myself out of this one, "I wanted to give you a massage because, like I said, you've been working hard.  But then I thought I'd, you know, throw in the thing about the McRib."

"You're mean."

So once again, my dog Munson enjoyed a McRib dinner.  And when I went out in our back yard the next day, I learned something kind of interesting.  Without putting too fine a point on it, it seems that the canine digestive system does not adequately process chopped onions.

Now it's on to Plan C.  I don't know what that is yet, exactly, but I'll come up with something.


TO BE CONTINUED . . .


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15 comments:

Rachel Cotterill said...

That made me laugh - but I'm not sure why you need a Plan C. I mean, it's there, in the small print. You just need to sue for breach of contract... ;)

Boom Boom Larew said...

Poor Theresa! You are relentless! Only one question... if they're so good, why do you keep feeding her rejects to the dog? Surely you could eat just one more!

Eva Gallant said...

You are downright sneaky! lol

Jenn Flynn-Shon said...

I can't begin to express how happy I am that you didn't provide photographic proof of the chopped onion thing.

hahaha!! Word Verification: eator

eator else the dog will have to suffer another McRib sandwich...

J.J. in L.A. said...

"I'm not eating a fucking McRib."

I'm liking Theresa more and more every day.

Candy's daily Dandy said...

Dude, that's just plain sinister...
Even the dog couldn't handle it.

A McRib is the most disGusting looking thing I have ever seen. I'm with Theresa, "I'm not eating a fucking McRib".

ANY DAY.
IN the words of Yukon Cornelius,
"you eat what you like and I'll eat what I like."

ReformingGeek said...

McRibs are nasty. You should be sleeping in the dog house and the dog can have your spot in bed.

Send the dog to massage school. It would do the massage unconditionally.

;-)

Fred Miller said...

Tessa's kid was eating a McRib in the car last week. I thought I had B.O.

It was the sandwich.

Heff said...

TASTE THE PRE-FAB GOODNESS !

Anonymous said...

You do know that onions are poisonous to dogs - right?

http://www.jlhweb.net/Boxermap/onions.html

00dozo said...

Still playin' with your food, eh?
;-)

vickilikesfrogs said...

Oh, you, sir, are evil. Pure, evil. Haha, I love it!!!

MikeWJ at Too Many Mornings said...

Damn, that was your funniest post in weeks, Knuck! I almost woke up my wife with my laughing. I love how Theresa was on to you right away. Too bad you won't be getting any for about six months, though.

I'm Jane said...

You're gooooood.

Julie Dunlap said...

That Theresa is one lucky lady!

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