By Jeff Girod
Researchers in Spain claim that depression is 51 percent more likely to occur in people who eat fast food compared to people who don’t. (I’m assuming there are people on Earth who don’t eat fast food, possibly stranded on a deserted island, lost in space or locked deep inside a laboratory.)
Spanish researchers also discovered that people who eat a lot of fast food are more likely to be single, less active and big fans of Dockers comfort-fit waistbands. “The more fast food you consume, the greater the risk of depression,” said a double-cheese hating researcher who would probably be a lot less depressed if he ordered a few more Happy Meals.
When will science learn that Americans don’t care about science? This country eats fast food like it’s our job. You think we’re giving up Whoppers and Big Macs just because somebody in Spain says they make us depressed? Hamburgers and French fries are delicious—even if they make me want to run a brush through my hair and listen to Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors” on repeat 37 times.
Scientists could declare that all fast food everywhere is made with radioactive spiders that will explode your genitals, kill your grandparents and suck your soul out through a silly straw. Most of us would just ask if we could get our soul-sucking grandpa-killing radioactive spiders supersized with bacon.
Then again, it seems like I would be less depressed about eating fast food if I didn’t actually have to visit a fast food restaurant. Have you ever been inside an Arby’s? Good lord. I’ve seen cheerier killing floors.
First of all, Arby’s shouldn’t be able to offer five of any kind of sandwich for $5. Aim for a higher dietary standard if anything allegedly containing roast beef can be had for 10 dimes. You shouldn’t be able to purchase any part of a cow for less than what it costs for a bag of vending machine Funyuns.
And I understand that most fast food workers earn minimum wage, but do we have to be reminded of it whenever we pull up to the drive-through? Jeez Louise, I’m trying to work up an appetite. The last thing I want to see is some pimply-faced teen/ex-con/mother of five in a wash ’n‘ wear visor and Radio Shack headset handing over my Egg McMuffin with two sleeves of tattoos and a “I should’ve studied harder in pre-algebra” look on their faces.
You want me to stop being depressed when I eat fast food? Dazzle me, McDonald’s/Carl’s Jr./Jack in the Box/Taco Bell/Burger King. (I purposely omitted Del Taco because we’re lucky its establishment even has a roof. What other corners is it cutting? Thirty-nine cents for a red burrito? Are you kidding me? It’s going to cost me more than that later just to go diarrhea in my toilet.)
A trip to a fast food joint should be an extravaganza. On the hour, every hour, turn the entire restaurant into an old west stunt show. The “town sheriff” should shoot a bandito who falls through a second-floor banister into a pile of napkins. (Or it can be Batman, the Joker and several packets of buttermilk dressing. I’m flexible as long there’s enough dipping sauce leftover for my criss-cut fries.)
Man the drive-through with D-list celebrities. I’m pretty sure Todd Bridges, Andy Dick and Kathy Griffin are all available—and probably wouldn’t mind the work.
Convert the restaurant roof into a working volcano that spouts Code Red Mountain Dew or McRib sauce. Both are made with roughly the same ingredients and probably taste better after being poured down a shingle.
Recently Burger King followed the trend of McDonald’s and introduced healthier options to its menu including smoothies, frappes, chicken strips and snack wraps. Now there’s some news that’s truly depressing.
Don’t try to be something you’re not. I don’t go to strippers for marital advice, and I don’t go to Burger King for the vitamin D.
And somebody should stop serving hamburgers to researchers and scientists. Or we’ll all be crying into our snack wraps.
Contact Jeff Girod at firstname.lastname@example.org.