Sex.
My mouth is having sex with itself.
I'd been in Arizona for less than an hour, and I already thought about moving.
Despite Drool's warnings that by even visiting the In N' Out Burger, I would lose all rights to ever returning to Whataburger, my curiosity took the better of me. Armed with a rent car and time to kill, I headed up Interstate 17 in search of my quarry.
After 30 minutes, I realized I missed my turn. Way missed my turn.
Another 20 minutes later, and I found myself staring at what, at the moment, was the Mecca of Fast Food. The In N' Out. I initially felt let down by their meager menu, but after my airport vodka tonics I could have eaten Arby's. When the girl said "69, please" I giggled, even though I was 70.
I must say, I never truly anticipated what I felt. It was a good burger. Not "not bad", but good. The fries were quite delicious, but I felt the tinge of guilt that only comes from denying my heritage. Whataburger was my bread and greasy butter for nearly two decades. And I find myself, mouth still engaged in pleasure, wondering how many trips I could take to this place.
The drive to the hotel was silent. My post-coital mouth was just too tired. As I pulled up, I again thought of ways to excuse myself at least once more to taste the deliciousness of the In N' Out.
Then I saw it. An In N' Out, right next to my hotel.
My mouth is so screwed.
My mouth is having sex with itself.
I'd been in Arizona for less than an hour, and I already thought about moving.
Despite Drool's warnings that by even visiting the In N' Out Burger, I would lose all rights to ever returning to Whataburger, my curiosity took the better of me. Armed with a rent car and time to kill, I headed up Interstate 17 in search of my quarry.
After 30 minutes, I realized I missed my turn. Way missed my turn.
Another 20 minutes later, and I found myself staring at what, at the moment, was the Mecca of Fast Food. The In N' Out. I initially felt let down by their meager menu, but after my airport vodka tonics I could have eaten Arby's. When the girl said "69, please" I giggled, even though I was 70.
I must say, I never truly anticipated what I felt. It was a good burger. Not "not bad", but good. The fries were quite delicious, but I felt the tinge of guilt that only comes from denying my heritage. Whataburger was my bread and greasy butter for nearly two decades. And I find myself, mouth still engaged in pleasure, wondering how many trips I could take to this place.
The drive to the hotel was silent. My post-coital mouth was just too tired. As I pulled up, I again thought of ways to excuse myself at least once more to taste the deliciousness of the In N' Out.
Then I saw it. An In N' Out, right next to my hotel.
My mouth is so screwed.
