======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
It’s 2:30 a.m., you’re drunk, and you’ve decided to get food to help forget that you don’t have a girl. In my vast experience working in a bar, I’ve grown very familiar with the after-drinking dining experience.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. “Any port in a storm,” my father would say, before pouring himself another Bushmills and falling asleep on the floor, his still-lit cigarette burning a hole in the carpet. You’re resourceful, and you’ll do anything to get what you want — in this case, beefy 5-layers. At this point, your body is so destroyed it doesn’t matter what you put in it, and you know this.
Consider this selection one step above giving up.
Jack in the Box
Like Norm McDonald’s character in Billy Madison, this seems like a good choice, but ends up being completely average.
They’ve tried to make it better with the addition of “munchie meals” to the menu, but they couldn’t fool you. It’s just the same food in a cool box, right? They’ve underestimated you. And with half-and-half curly/regular fries, apparently they think you’re an asshole, too. The saving grace of the munchie meal debacle is its cheapness (and the brunch burger).
The brunch burger is the tits.
In-N-Out closes at 1 a.m.; pull your head out of your ass.
The local joint
You’ve been in college like 2 weeks, and that super chill guy from FIJI or wherever who TOTALLY looked out for you during rush took you to this local joint during dirty rush so now you’re taking everybody from the dorms there. And who else is there? Everybody else who goes to your school: the drama kids, GDIs, and hipsters. One of them will inevitably see you, in your still-clean “going out” shirt, and just know that you’re a TKE pledge or whatever — and they will talk shit to you. And you’ll try to look tough in front of Marie, that girl from down the hall, and your mouth will write a check your body can’t cash. Just don’t.
Whether it be Taco Shop in Tucson, Fuego in College Station, or Kerbey Lane in Austin, these places have great drunk food followed by apocalyptic drunk diarrhea. And that’s the last thing you need right now.
That’s the one from the movie, right? My best friend’s dad says everyone from north of I-10 is a yankee. I think patrons of this restaurant are who he’s referring to.
Like your high school girlfriend, this one will leave you unfulfilled and, in my experience, still hungry. You came here because you’re being a zealous designated driver and you felt bad for Enrique, who just won’t stop vomiting. McDonald’s will be the quickest and nuggets will be the easiest to consume post-vomit, the Rumchata-colored yak on your pants drying and your tolerance for Enrique’s bullshit quickly waning.
But you’re a good friend, and Enrique’s your pledge brother. You owe it to him after he saved you from the “big girl” everybody calls “The Linebacker” who tried to bed you last time you blacked out.
Suffice it to say if you’re at McDonald’s, you’re pissed off; but at least your one sober security weekend of the year is over, right?
It’s a full moon out. You tell your roommates that you’re going to stay in tonight, but you aren’t. You show back up at your house late, shirt covered in blood, gun that you bought from your Special K dealer stashed in a paper bag.
Drunk roommate: “Heyyyy whatzz all ovur yer shirt?”
You: “It’s cranberry juice, Paul,” you say, irritated by his drunk audacity. He says that to you, out of nowhere? Who does he think he is?
You go back to your room. You realize you’re hungry. Hunger seems to be the only thing you feel anymore. You can’t leave because your shirt is covered in blood, so you order Jimmy John’s.
Jimmy John’s attracts murderers, it’s science.
FINALLY. Your shit is figured out. Your job at a top 4 accounting firm is all but secured. God blessed you with a strong jawline and a hot girlfriend. You washed your truck today, and it didn’t immediately rain. The big man is looking out for you, amigo, so count your goddamn blessings.
Kiss your hangover goodbye, because Whataburger is the WD-40 to the rusty hinge forming in your gut right now.
Good choice, winner.
Get the fuck away from me..
Image via Shutterstock