Fries On The Ground

It was horrible. I might have chipped a tooth. After a long, strenuous night of facebooking and such on my part, and a tough go at fishing in the rain for my husband and son, we were too tired to cook. I ventured out to the local fast food eatery in search of a meal for us. It was doomed from the start. I hadn't been asked to "pull forward to the yellow line" in many years. They must have put all the little meat patties back in the freezer, because they had to specially hand-prep 3 no onion double cheeseburgers and three medium fries.

Being the queen of one trip that I am, I attempted to remove from the car the food, three large drinks, my blackberry, keys, wallet, and my body in a single armload. The sharp door of the '89 Crown Vic with fresh dual exhuast caught the bag of food, ripped it, and two orders of fries and one fry carton hit the ground.

There they were--about 75 of the prettiest french fries I have ever seen--flailing around on the rain-soaked Georgia clay. I rationalized that the dirt had recently been rinsed, and picked up the fry container that still contained a few fries. Those that were teetering on the precipice of the container fell out. This left only 9 fries in the bottom of the vessel, so, I theorized that those had only been in close proximity to the dirt. I taste-tested them and deemed them clean. I surrendered all rights to the McDonald's fries and let my husband and son split the remains. I figured this was a signal that I really didn't need them.

This made me think of a song set to the tune of lovable American Idol tryout General Larry Platt's "Pants on the Ground":

"Fries on the ground, fries on the ground, looking like a FOOL with you fries on the ground!"