The McRib Experiment: McRansom!

Okay, no more Mr. McNice Guy.

First, I tried to get Theresa to eat a McRib by offering her ten bucks.  She turned it down without a second's hesitation.  Undeterred, I moved on to Plan B, which involved a certificate for a half-hour massage and some really, really fine print.  The plan actually worked like a charm, as she accepted the offered massage.  However, displaying a shameful disregard of the established contract, Theresa refused to honor the microscopic "Neener-Neener-Now-You-Gotta-Eat-a-McRib" clause.

So, left with no other choice, I had her dog Newton kidnapped.

Theresa was sitting in the living room, probably thinking about what a great deal she could get on Halloween decorations for next year.  She's kind of obsessive like that.  I heard her son Doug and his girlfriend Obie come in through the front door.  I intercepted them before they could get to the living room.

"I need one of you guys to take Newton for a drive.  Just fifteen minutes or so," I said.

They knew what I was up to, so Obie volunteered.  She took Newt out to her car while Doug went upstairs and I placed a phone call to a third accomplice, my brother Bobby.

"Dude, I need your help with something," I said.  I explained my McQuest, and gave him his instructions.  This is the brother who, when he was seven, rigged a booby trap for our babysitter and then hit her in the face with a bucket of water.  He was absolutely the right guy for this assignment.

I went back upstairs and sat on the couch, waiting.  A couple minutes later, Theresa's cell phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Do you know where your dog is?"

"Excuse me?"

"Doooo . . . yoooooo . . . knowwwww . . . where your dog is?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Ronald McDonald.  Have you seen your dog lately?"

Theresa covered the phone and asked me and Doug, "Have you guys seen Newton?"

"He's not here?"  We pretended to look for the dog, calling his name over and over, trying not to chuckle.  Of course, he didn't respond.  He was on a pleasant drive with Obie.  Meanwhile, Theresa's panic level was rising.

"Do you have my dog? . . . WHO IS THIS!  YOU'RE NOT RONALD MCDONALD!"  Finally, she hung up on him, and helped us look for Newton.

That's when I texted her this picture:

The text was clearly sent by "CHRIS CELL".  Why this didn't clue her in to the prank, I have no idea.

"Oh my God!  Someone just texted me a picture of Newton!  He's blindfolded!  Who took this picture?!"

She ran out into the back yard, frantically calling out, "NEWTON!  NEWTON!" while Doug and I watched from the back deck.

"Think we should tell her?" he asked.

"Not just yet.  Let her sweat it out just a little longer."

She came back inside.  "He's not out here!  The gate's still locked so he couldn't have gotten out, where the hell is he?"  She went to look downstairs.

When she was out of earshot, Doug looked at me and said, "You know she's gonna be pissed, right?"

"I told her she should've just eaten the McRib when I offered her ten bucks.  This is her own fault."

"Yeah, I'm sure she's gonna see it like that."

"Okay, okay, I'll let her in on it."  I took out my phone and texted her this:

From downstairs, I heard her phone beep, followed by an ominous silence.

And then the yelling started.

"YOU KIDNAPPED NEWTON TO GET ME TO EAT A FUCKING MCRIB?!  WHERE THE HELL IS HE?!"  She stormed back upstairs and gave me a look that would cause ravenous wolves to flee in terror and woodchucks to burst into flame.

"If I tell you, will you eat one?"  I asked.

"No!"

"Fine, then I don't know where he is.  He probably ran away and got hit by a truck."

"You're a jerk.  Where is he?"

"Eat the McRib?"

"Yeah, okay, fine, where's my dog?"

Doug called Obie who returned moments later with Newton who, as usual, hadn't the foggiest clue what was going on.

Theresa eventually calmed down, and she started putting it all together.  "Who was it that called me?" she asked.

"That was Bobby."

She grabbed her phone, and called his number.  Suffice it to say, someone's going to be short one Christmas present this year.

Victorious, I drove to McDonald's to get a McRib.  As a minor concession, I agreed to let Theresa special order it, no pickles or onions.  By the time I got home, though, she had reconsidered the whole thing.

"Forget it, I'm not eating one."

A rather boisterous argument ensued, Doug and I taking the "you gotta eat one, you promised" point of view, Theresa adamantly in the "oh no I don't, either" camp.  Obie was keeping out of it, as she was already in enough trouble with Theresa and our other dog Munson, who was pissed off that she didn't take him for a ride in the car.

"Okay, okay," Theresa finally agreed.  "I'll take ONE bite, and then you have to eat some seaweed."

"That wasn't part of the deal," I said.  Seaweed is friggin' disgusting.  Theresa eats it all the time, wrapped around rice and fish into a "moosabee" or something like that.  Truly, they're gross.

"Do you want me to eat the McRib or not?"

Remembering the original goal, I said, "Fine.  But you're eating the McRib first."

She was a bit reluctant at first:

She tried to get away with a couple microscopic nibbles, but Doug and I weren't about to let her get away with it.  "You gotta at least take a full bite, meat and bun," I said.  So she did.

I kept my end of the bargain by choking down a bit of seaweed.  In case you're wondering, it tastes just like fish food smells, if that makes any sense. 

Of course, we still had about 90% of a McRib left uneaten.  Theresa sure wasn't going to finish it off, Doug and I both passed, and Obie was still sitting silently on the couch waiting for the whole ordeal to blow over.  In the end, there was only one reasonable thing to do . . .

It was only fair.  Newton had gone through a pretty traumatic experience.

It may have taken a few weeks of playing Sam-I-Am -- offering bribes, giving a massage, and finally stooping to doggie abduction -- but as promised, I got Theresa to eat (or at least take a bite of ) a McRib sandwich.

Mission McComplished.


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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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The McRib Experiment: The Bribe

Several days ago, my fiance Theresa assured me that there was, and I quote, "No way you can get me to eat a McRib."  Of course, I took this as a challenge, so now I'm going to do everything in my power to get her to partake of the McDonald's "Limited Time Only" delicacy.  We're calling it, "The McRib Experiment".

My first attempt took place on the evening of November 9th.  I stopped by the local Mickey D's on my way home from work and ordered the McRib combo.  Immediately, there was a problem.

"I'm sorry, but we're out of McRib buns," said the drive-through McPloyee.

"You've gotta be freakin' kiddin' me.  You've got these things for six weeks and you're already out of buns?"

"We're expecting some more in about fifteen minutes if you want to wait.  Or we could put it on one of our honey baked rolls."

"Yeah, fine, do that." I said.  It's mystery meat slathered in fake barbecue sauce.  How much worse could a substitute bun make it?

When I got home, Theresa was sitting in the living room.  "Hi, Honey," I said.  "I got you something to eat.  Take a look."  I held up the McDonald's bag.

"I'm not eating a McRib," she said.

"Okay, here's the deal.  I'll give you ten bucks right now to eat it."  Suddenly I started to feel a little bit like Sam-I-Am.  If she turned down the money, maybe I could get her to eat one in a box.  Or with a fox.  Or in a house.  Or with a mouse.

I took a ten dollar bill from my wallet and set it along side the McRib.

"No way," said Theresa.  "Look at that crap, it's disgusting."

Her son Doug came over.  "Can I have the ten bucks if I eat it?"

"No.  It's for your mom.  Besides, for ten bucks, you'd eat your own shoe."

"What's your point?" asked Doug.

"Yeah, well, forget it."  I turned to Theresa.  "Well, there it is, all yours."

"I told you I'm not eating that," said Theresa.

"You sure?  Ten dollars . . . Meal, or No Meal?" I asked, dramatically.

"Uh, no meal."

Since I'm not going to go above a ten-spot for the bribery phase, I guess it's time to move on to Plan B.  And don't worry, there is most definitely a Plan B.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, the McRib didn't go to waste . . .

Of course, the fact that Munson went out in the back yard and immediately yakked all over the place is only going to make my mission more difficult.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .



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The McRib Experiment: Prologue

On Sunday night, Theresa and I were watching the Green Bay Packers beat the living crap out of the East Texas Boys' Choir (sometimes known as the "Dallas Cowboys") when a McDonald's commercial came on.  Apparently, the good folks at Mickey D's are bringing back the McRib, without question the most controversial food item of our time.

In layman's terms, the McRib sandwich is a slab of boneless "pork" slathered in "barbecue sauce", garnished with chopped onions and sliced pickles, and served on an over-sized dinner roll.  The key feature here is that the "meat" is shaped like a rack of ribs, only there are no bones.

Brilliant, right?

When the McRib was originally introduced in 1981, it took the nation by storm.  Okay, to be honest, it took the nation by mostly cloudy skies with a chance of showers, but still, they were a new McDonald's menu item and as such, several brave individuals tried one.  I myself was a big McRib fan, and partook of the McGoodness on many occasions only to be disappointed when they were discontinued in 1985.  Since then, the McRib has made a few "limited time only" appearances, the most recent of which began on November 2nd and runs through December 5th.

Why am I telling you this?  I'll explain.

After watching the McRib commercial during the Packers - Boys' Choir game, Theresa said, "The McRib is back?  Those things are disgusting.  I've never had one in my life."

"Well, then how do you know it's disgusting?"

"Just look at it."

"Yeah, it's a rack of ribs on a bun, I've had 'em before.  They're actually pretty tasty."

"Pickles and onions, on fake meat?  No thanks.  There's no way you could get me to eat that crap."

I'm not one to pass up a challenge like that, so I've now got about five weeks to bribe, threaten, coerce, trick, or manipulate Theresa into partaking of a delectable McRib sandwich.  Now, understand that I'm not going to be ridiculous about it.  I'm sure that if I said, "Hey, Theresa, here's five hundred bucks.  Eat this McRib and it's yours," she'd down that sucker in nothing flat.  But I don't think any reasonable person would call me the winner in that particular scenario.

So the key here is for me to get her to eat the McRib for as little compensation as possible.   Sort of a "Meal or No Meal" type thing.  At least, it's going to start out that way.  But if she can't be bought or bribed, I may have to resort to trickery.

We'll see how it goes.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .




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