TF
Trivium. Fiduciary.Agency
1 day ago
The following was transcribed via voice-to-text; please excuse the wet, slapping sounds and heavy breathing throughout the recording.
(Sound of a wrapper tearing with primal urgency. A wet, muffled groan.)
"Ooh... ooh, heavens. My hands are shaking, but my heart—my heart is singing a grease-slicked aria. I am currently seated at a corner booth in a Whataburger, and I must tell you, the world outside these orange-and-white stripes has ceased to exist.
First, let us address the environment. It is immaculate. The floors reflect the fluorescent lights like a polished ballroom, which is a mercy, because I can see my own reflection in the tiles as I tip toe over to the cardboard tray. I look... unhinged and sweaty. I look like a man who hasn't seen a salad in a decade. I look HUNGRY."
(Heavy chewing. A sound like a boot pulling out of thick mud.)
"The staff... (swallows loudly) ...they are supernaturally friendly. A young woman named Angel just brought me a side of spicy ketchup with a smile so genuine I almost felt a flicker of human connection—but then I saw the Sweet & Spicy Monterey Burger and remembered that people are temporary, but beef, beef is eternal. She didn't even flinch when a drop of mustard landed on my tie. She just nodded, as if to say, 'I understand your burden, Eat. Be whole.'"
The Main Event: The Feast
"But the food. Dear God, the food. It is surprisingly—no, shockingly—delicious for what the unwashed masses call 'fast food.' This is not fast food; this is a high-velocity religious experience...(Glutenous moaning) mmm...
The Bun: Toasted to a golden hue that rivals a Texas sunset. It’s pillowy, yet strong enough to support the weight of my obsession.
The Patty: Sizzled to perfection. It is thin, wide, and salty—the holy trinity of the griddle, grease and cheese.
The Jalapeños: I am stuffing them into my mouth three at a time now. They provide the precise amount of pain I need to feel alive."
(A long, wet slurping sound. The critic appears to be drinking gravy or perhaps just heavily melted shake.)
"I am currently—hrrrgh—shoving a handful of fries into my mouth while simultaneously trying to describe the Whata-Sized Dr. Pepper. My chin is a disaster zone. I am a mess of salt, sugar, and saturated fats, and I have never been more certain of my purpose on this Earth.
Whataburger isn't just a meal. It is a warm, orange hug for the soul of a glutton. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe there is a warm gooey cinnamon roll calling my name from the menu, and I have every intention of answering that call until my heart gives its final, triumphant thud." Thanks Whataburger. I LOVE YOU.