This summer, Wendy's has been shilling the Baconator, which is a heart-stopping concoction of six strips of bacon, two slices of American cheez, and a whole buncha lotta meat. My sister-in-law blogged my brother's deep need for this food product (here), but my husband remained curiously calm and didn't rush out to get his very own quadruple bypass.
That changed today.
For various reasons (Elegant's puppet camp ran late due to poor planning on the director's part, so we couldn't go out to eat lunch at a nice restaurant as we had planned and instead had to stop at a crappy fast food place before I took Elegant to occupational therapy.), we stopped by Wendy's and grabbed lunch for the four of us. Pete decided to get the Baconator. I did nothing to stop his folly.
He said, "Hey, you didn't stop me."
Me, "You're a grown man. If you kill yourself, you kill yourself." [pause] "Plus, we have that big-ass insurance policy on you."
We picked up our swill and brought it home. As I sorted the food, it was readily apparent which burger belonged to me and which one belonged to the man about to become Clogged Artery Guy. I looked at him and asked, "Your life insurance IS paid up, right?"
He ate it. And he didn't die. (Yet.)
The thing is, Pete thought the Baconator was only okay. As he said, "It was just a half pound brick of beef, pork, and cheese between two slabs of white bread and nuthin' else."
Six hours later, he's still not hungry.