#869 AM/BM

The other day I was driving by one of those gas station convenience stores. I once explained to my son that back in the old days gas stations were places you could take your car for other things—oil, oil changes, light repairs, wiper blades.
At some point, the big oil companies felt that as long as they were promoting one type of gas they might as well try their hand at promoting the creation of another.
So they started to purvey cheap food. The mini-mart gas station was born. And I do mean gas station. It’s not just in the packaged selections they offer—Slim Jims, smoked nuts and cheese-wiz packs. They also got hot stuff—burgers, hot dogs and chicken sandwiches.
In fact, the other day I saw this one place offering all three together for only $2.59—a little less than 87 cents a piece! Think of the quality that must signify!
I long for the days of my youth when my digestive system could handle such an onslaught. Because now, it would kill me.
A mini-mart burger? Probably doesn’t have any “non-angry” beef in it. One of my younger friends told me if I do go in; make sure it’s when the burgers just come out of the microwave or whatever. You’d be surprised how much e-coli heat lamps fail to kill.
The burgers can’t be any worse than the quality of dogs. Hot dogs are already notorious for the use of lips and sphincters—on the lowest end of the meat product scale. I’m thinking an 87 cent dog has a lot of tail meat.
And the chicken sandwich? Can we hope it’s breaded beyond recognition and deep-fried to a tasteless gummable mass, somewhere in an industrial strength kitchen, thereby to kill its factory farm parasites?
Lastly, do not, I repeat, do not, use the open condiment containers. You do not want to know what was on the hand of the last person who handled the handle of the spoon.
He filled up his tank, emptied himself in the restroom, grabbed a mini-mart burger, and slathered on the condiments. All with the same hand.
Tiny foil packets are your friends.
America, ya gotta love it.