Dick Clark and the Season of Shame

You’re running out of time. It’s almost December 31st, and everyone needs a New Year’s Resolution. What’s it gonna be this year? Finally grow out those mutton chops? Learn to speak Klingon? Arm wrestle Justin Beiber? Do some sit-ups, climb a mountain, gut a deer, paint a fence?

It’s always the same for me. “This is the year I lose weight.” Dick Clark’s been my diet coach for a long time. New Year’s Eve meant confronting all the soda, Suzie Q’s, Bits O’Honey and bowls of Count Chocula I’d eaten in the previous 364 days while rockin’ to the televised hits of Toto, Billy Squire and Juice Newton as Dick narrated the ball’s descent. Just a snippet of “Auld Lang Syne” still makes me spit out whatever I’m trying to swallow whole before everyone screams, “Happy New Year!” While my siblings or friends tooted paper horns, counting down the seconds, I rehearsed my resolution - that this year, 1978, 1985, 1996 or 2009 – pick a year, any year – would be the year I finally shed unwanted tonnage.

This Friday night won’t be any different. I’ll huddle in front of the TV, cursing Dick’s persistence, wishing I could say 2011 would be the year I instead kickbox an angry kangaroo, spend a night in Delaware or vote Libertarian. But no. 2011 is THE year I lose weight.

I’ve decided to embrace the root of my lifelong strife and go out in blaze of cheesy greasy glory, targeting five fast food creations that defy nature, their very existence calling into question the molecular order of things. From the DoubleDown chicken sandwich to the McRib, from the Cheesy Bites Pizza to the Grilled Stuft Burrito, with a handful of Sausage Pancake Mini Maple-flavored bites thrown in for good measure, I aim to earn this year’s resolution with every fat-saturated caloric chew. I’ve convinced Maisie, my 11-year old daughter to join me. Kids today need to know there are consequences for the actions their parents force them to do.

Maybe these artery-obstructing choices are, “The Five Foods You’ll Eat in Hell,” but I’m not so sure. Everyone’s always smiling on the commercials, and who doesn’t love extra cheese slathered in imitation garlic butter? People without New Year’s resolutions, that’s who.

KFC’s our first stop, and my daughter’s having second thoughts. “Will I feel gross after I eat it?” she asks, not entirely serious but worked up enough to make me wonder if she’ll hyperventilate herself out of this trip.

We split two of the Colonel’s latest creations – the Double Down and the Doublelicious, the former having gained notoriety by substituting two boneless fried chicken pieces for the bun, holding together a generous helping of bacon, cheese and mystery sauce. We split them and share our booty. “This is a swirling vortex of yumminess,” Maisie says, but less than an hour later, she’s filled with remorse. “I feel sick. Why did you make me do this?” I’d answer but can’t, the salt from the sandwiches rendering my tongue useless.

The next day we tackle the newest menu item at Dunkin’ Donuts – Sausage Pancake Mini Bites –udder-sized meat-type sausages wrapped in a thin, maple-flavored pancake. It takes a leap of faith every time you bite into mass-produced sausage, and this effort requires something more like a catapult. As the mini bite reaches my lips, the pancake gives a little, like a soggy eggroll, but I continue, eating the fleshy tube in two bites. Maisie takes one nibble and announces she’s done.

“That tasted really gross. Why are we doing this again?” I don’t answer, gobbling down the remaining bites. The hint of artificial maple lingers in my throat like the syrupy perfume of an IHOP assistant night manager who knows her way around a waffle iron.

I spend the next week trying to figure out when I’ll fit in the rest. It’s not easy finding time for fast food.

Pizza Hut’s Cheesy Bites pizza is like the Ishtar of pizzas. “A pull-apart crust with 28 cheese-filled bites!” brags the Pizza Hut website. Sadly, just as Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty couldn’t save a lousy movie, Pizza Hut’s inability to execute on its vision leaves us bereft. This pizza resembles a giant circular Sasquatch plaster casting with mozzarella-filled toes. This yeti needs a manicure. I keep the large man-beast comments to myself so we can dig in, and we eat most of the pizza before giving up. “That was not worth it,” Maisie says. That doesn’t stop me from eating a dozen bites and four slices, reminding myself 2011 is my year.

Two days later I enter McDonald’s, scanning the menu for the McRib. It’s not there! McDonald’s has been playing cat and mouse with McRib lovers for years, selling it at random times in out-of-the-way locations, creating a semi-myth about the ground pork, pickle and onion sandwich to the point where you had a greater chance of sharing a McDLT with Whitey Bulger than finding a McRib in your neighborhood. The woman behind the counter asks for my order, and I say, “So you guys don’t have the McRib.”

“Yes we do,” she says as she points to a small sign pasted to the register. “Get one before they’re all gone – the famous McRib!”

I buy a McRib Large Extra Value Meal and head home. Maisie’s waiting (she’s no quitter), and I split the sandwich in two. It looks nothing like its photo – the sauce thin, the pickles sad and the few errant white onion shards bunched in the corner in what looks like fear. As for the rib aspect of the sandwich, I wonder what tiny creature was deboned for my lunch – McRabbit? McBadger? Hamburgler? But this sandwich isn’t gonna eat itself so we dig in.

“This has a weird taste,” Maisie complains, swiping my fries and leaving the kitchen. She’s given up on this quest, resigned to the idea that New Year’s resolutions are for processed pork lovers. I finish hers and mine in a few gulps.

I’m left alone for the final challenge – a visit to Taco Bell where I’ll dine solo on a Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.

One might assume that any food using intentionally poor spelling is hiding something, but after one bite, the only thing this Stuft masterpiece is hiding is its fabulousness, and I don’t care how it’s spelt. The burrito sits warm in my hands, its top grilled brown, bite after bite revealing pockets of rice, cheese, beans and just enough chicken to explain away the misspelling.

I’ll miss you the most, Grilled Stuft friend. You’ve warmed my belly, caressed my heart and made me wish I didn’t own a calendar. That way, every day would be carefree, just like the playful way you tease me with each tickle of my taste buds. I love you, Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.

But this is serious. In only a few days I must declare my intentions for 2011, and this burrito’s thrown me off. Maybe I could sneak away to Taco Bell once in a while – I mean, it’s kind of like a church, right? I could claim sanctuary and declare 2011 as the Year of “Tim and the Yo Yo” or “Tim Learns Jazzercise!” No. I’ve been down this road - 1986’s cheese fries are today’s chicken burritos and 2016’s frosted apple fritters, so it’s time to man up. No more stuft burritos, no more mini maple corn dogs for breakfast and no more Spam-flavored hype hoagies – just me and my muesli and maybe a scoop of yogurt if I’m feeling dangerous.

I say goodbye to you, my five cheesy fried meat-laced friends. But if we do run into each other, let’s pretend we never met. Dick doesn’t need to know. It’s easier that way.