Filet-O-Fish Story

The other day I was headed out to grab a lane and cash in some free bowling coupons, but I stopped for a bite to eat on the way. There they were, those golden arches - the song "Have you had your break today..." plays over and over in my head. Sweet delicious goodness, Jared be darned! Oooh, something catches my eye - a huge banner on top of the Mickey D's informing me of a Double Filet-O-Fish Extra Value Meal, for only $4.99. Did you say Double Filet-O-Fish?? It's a Lent miracle!!! I've never heard of such, that must mean this is a new concept. It sounds mouthwateringly perfect.

Well, upon a successful, short trip in the drive-thru, I'm off to the alley. Oh, it smells so good! I open that container to ensure it's the "double" and oh, it is a double. I'm getting fatter just looking at it. Now comes the pre-eating cleansing of the sandwich. I love tartar sauce as much as the next guy, but McDonald's wants to make sure I have enough, and so they saturate the poor sandwich with that stuff. (In years past, McD's ran a "2 Filet-O-Fish" meal special during Lent, so I would ask for one fish sandwich with no tatar sauce, then transfer half of what's soaking the other sandwich and it was perfect.)

Anyways, so I took the top bun and scraped some sauce off into the cardboard box from whence it came. Don't worry, that sauce was not to be wasted - it would accompany the fries later on. Driving down the road, I take my first bite into my first-ever Double Filet-O-Fish. Twas sooo good. Unfortunately, for yours truly, there was still an excessive volume of tartar - and some escaped out the back of the sandwich.

I look down, and there's a little glop of sauce, resting right below the fly of my khaki shorts. I was in the process of getting on the freeway, but with the knowledge of what condiments can do to khaki (it's not my first time being a messy baby), I pull to the side of the acceleration ramp to take immediate action.

Growing up fat, I have developed a pretty good system to battle food stains. It involves immediate and direct scrubbing with an ice cube cradled in a napkin. If you're drinking soda, so much the better. Take a little sip, don't swallow, but ever so nonchalantly spit the small amount of soda on to your makeshift scrubber as a helping agent. (The principle behind "A little club soda will get that out" applies here - trust me, I have a chemistry degree.) Cola will stain too, right? Well, which stain would you rather have on your brown khakis, red marinara sauce or a little trace of Diet Coke?

So there I am, after having picked up the bulk of the glop ever so gently, I go to work, while the freeway on-ramp traffic is driving by. My makeshift scrubber, or "Shiv," as I call it, is going to get the job done. So there I am, scrubbing vigorously with rapid arm movements my shorts, stretching the material to ensure a successful cleaning, ignoring the huge wet area now occupying the surface area from the fly to the crotch of my shorts. "The dampness will dry before you get to the bowling alley, just keep scrubbing," I told myself.

Honk, honk!!!

Cars whiz by. "What?" I ask myself, "what are they honking at? I'm well off the road, I have my hazards on." I continue scrubbing, harder and faster. "I can't let this set!" I say ever so determined.

HONK, HONK!!!

"What are they looking at?" I ask as I see people looking at me as they pass. I then realized that only my upper torso was visible to the passing traffic. If you can visualize what the passing cars saw, then you can perhaps empathize with the mild discomfiture I experienced realizing how I must have appeared to my fellow commuters.

Well, the scrubbing was soon over and I was on my way, having the vents on full blast pointed to my shorts. The sad epilogue to my story was that unfortunately my hard work scrubbing was for naught, as was the perceived show I was giving to traffic. The tartar had done its damage and a [rather noticeable] grease spot had set in right under the fly of my shorts. I bowled with my shirt untucked.