The McRib doesn’t come around very often. It’s like watching your child’s first steps, your college graduation, or falling in love. But pork. The McRib isn’t simply a meal one can leisurely eat on a casual lunch break, for there is a battle involved, but one that rewards its combatants with taste bud glory. Its tangy sauce stows away on your lips only to resurface later at an opportune time, and what price delight? The blend of onion, pickle and barbecue sauce leaves a swirl of unadulterated joy, and who wouldn’t accept joy into their lives? Men who are afraid. Men who do not have the fortitude to endure pure bliss; happiness distilled into molded meat.
There is no one left to fight by my side. No more brothers-in-arms, vanished as quickly as they appeared. The McRibs are back, and their campaign must not go unabated. I stand atop a pile of the afraid, cowardice embodied. No one brave enough to stand their ground. I look around me, and all I see are weaker men left in the wake of barbecue pork sandwiches. Weaker men, and McRibs.
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