Caked Potato

Whatever Wendy's last name is, it sure ain't Irish.

The real-life Wendy succumbed to heart disease at the tender age of twelve.


For some reason and for the first time ever I decided to order a baked potato last night on a Wendy’s jaunt, for the good of my health but also against my better judgment.  Plus they were out of chili.  So I get the muthafucka home and I shit you not, this is what their definition of what a baked potato was: a mutantly-overgrown spud sliced down the middle, slopped in globs of nacho cheese, and stuffed with a big wad of fat posing as bacon.

Oh the humamity.  And here I was expecting just a plain-ass baked potato.  I guess I shoulda made it clearer to leave the fucker Irish when I ordered, but jesus christ who expected this heart attack in a box to be Wendy’s standard vegetable treatment?  Dave Thomas must be deep-frying in his grave.  How long til they have just plain lard on the menu?

I’m always polite to the staff when ordering, saying please and thank you, and asking if the carpet matches the drapes of their pigtailed logo.  But now seeing how my courtesies are paid back like this definitely gives me food for thought.  Really, really awful food for thought.


Leave a Reply