The early teenage years of my life were a gastrointestinal nightmare of Lovecraftian proportions; unnamable, greasy horrors lurked and slithered through my vital organs on a daily basis. It was not uncommon to find me spending entire weekends eating nothing more than McDonald’s double cheeseburgers, five per meal, my young and virile gut swollen with dubious meat stuffs. However, those days are past me; I am no longer a young pup; I am old, cranky, and my digestive system doesn’t seem to work quite right. I have now reached a compromise: I will eat the scientifically delicious food, but only in moderation.

Why do you need to know the dull, needlessly detailed history of my eating habits? Because this article is about my experiences with tackling the ominous Wendy’s Baconator, and I presume that, since you are on the internet, you think nothing of eating a Baconator. Perhaps you eat several Baconators at once and they are stacked on top of one another, perhaps your jaw unhinges and you are able to stuff the entire thing in your mouth at once like Norville “Shaggy” Rogers. You will read this and scoff at me for being intimidated by a mere ¾ pounds of meat, but know this: I am a man who eats normal things like salads and ¼ lb hamburgers, and this will not be easy for me.

The Baconator, for those who live in less civilized country, is composed of a half pound of beef (two patties, USDA approved, but they would approve Soylent Green if the price was right), ¼ lb. of bacon (six strips, no mention of the USDA here), 2 slices of American cheese, a healthy slathering of ketchup and mayonnaise, and yes, that is all on a sesame seed bun. The Baconator is also the official sandwich of The Canadian Football League, for what it’s worth. Although I doubt many nutritionists would claim The Baconator contributes to the cardiovascular fitness necessary to play football, but what do I know?

My initial feeling upon approaching the Baconator was that of confidence. I had conquered far greater masses of food than this before. However, Uneasiness soon settled over me as I picked apart the sandwich. I analyzed its pieces. I needed to know my foe, it already knew me. The ghosts of processed animal flesh haunted me as I analyzed its composition. I knew then that science couldn’t save me; this analysis was to be a personal, emotional ordeal.

Yum!

I took my first bite. It tasted much like a traditional Fast Food bacon cheeseburger: the deliciously greasy patty infused with chemicals handcrafted in New Jersey to titillate my taste buds, the liquid smoked bacon, the surprisingly strong cheese flavor, the suspiciously tasteless ketchup/mayonnaise combo. Yes, it tasted just like it should, only more so. My brain lit up with excitement as the meaty goodness washed across my tongue, I took a drag of my soda and set upon the beast with a glint of manic lust in my eye.

You would Photoshop your nose too if you had a bad cold. The Internet doesn

Several bites in I realized that the bacon flavor had begun to dominate all other flavors. There was no subtlety; there was no interplay of flavors. Here there was only bacon, grease and me. My heart pumped harder and I trudged on, a slight ache formed in my gallbladder, I didn’t know if it was my imagination or if the Baconator was trying to kill me. I desperately swigged more of my soda, hoping that the liquid and carbonation would break up some of the grease; I felt a thick film on my tongue.

I trudged onward. I knew that it was either me or the Baconator. We would both win no matter who lost. Dignity was our wager, not life. To live. To love a woman. To eat a Baconator. To die with dignity. There was but one piece left, I shoved it in to my mouth, chewing manically. My wife stared in horror. And with that it was over.

Intrepid readers will notice from the reflection on my glasses that I am watching Battlestar Galactica. This is because I wanted to give the proceedings the proper gravitas.

I had finished it. I could hardly breathe and I felt a strange taste in my mouth. It was earthy and sweet, that of grease and hickory. And I was afraid for a moment. But there was not much of it. I spat in to the sink and said, “Eat that, Wendy’s. And make a dream you’ve killed a man!”

Final Thoughts:

The Baconator was a pretty damn delicious sandwich if you have a fondness for artificial bacon flavor and grease, and let’s be honest, who doesn’t? I realized at the end, that I may have over-exaggerated the danger just a little. My heart did not explode upon completion, and my gallbladder is still trooping along. Perhaps this will open up new doors for me to experiment with exciting new delicacies such as the Wendy’s Double Baconator and Wendy’s Spicy Double Baconator. The sky is now my limit, and a world of flavor and delicious awesomeness has been opened up to me. Screw you healthy food, you can suck it.