Letter from a holding cell, pt. 1

Dear Whoever Reads The Comment Cards,

Hello! You probably did not expect to receive a comment card from me, but I understand (and appreciate) your surprise and delight.

If, in the off-chance you do not know who I am (if so, I imagine you have recently repatriated yourself after having lived overseas for a number of years), please allow me the pleasure of introducing myself. My name is Julie, and I am one of this country’s leading experts in turkey burgers.

For the past four-plus years, I have travelled the contiguous United States in search of the perfect turkey burger (or TB, for those who are able to overlook the fact that this abbreviation also stands for “Tuberculosis”). Of course, when I say “travelled the contiguous United States in search of the perfect turkey burger” I mean “whenever I am at a restaurant that serves burgers I usually choose the turkey option, but not always, because turkey is not always a menu choice or sometimes I decide that I’d rather try the chicken quesadillas”).

As you might imagine, I have eaten my fair share of TBs (again, this refers to turkey burgers, not a highly-communicable respiratory disease), and after taking just one bite of my lunch this afternoon I just knew that I would end up composing this essay on the stack of your comment cards I surreptitiously swiped from the hostess stand as I was escorted from the building (sorry about that, by the way. I hope you have more in the back).

The TB in question was nearly perfect. Not too juicy, not too weird-tasting; this is to say nothing of the satisfied feeling with which I left your establishment. Just ask the patrons sitting in the booth adjacent to mine: I could scarcely (nay, hardly) contain my satisfied moans and deep sighs of contentment. In fact, it was difficult for me to remain fully clothed (as the police report will corroborate), as the pure pleasure I experienced while feeding myself this delicious creation stirred a deeper, more primal, urge from within myself. As I finished the last – perfect– bite of my meal, I actually exploded in a shower of fulfillment and ecstasy.

Haha, no, that is an exaggeration. Had I literally exploded, I would not be able to complete this comment card, now would I?

But if it were, in fact, possible for one to explode in a shower of fulfillment and ecstasy, the management of this restaurant can rest assured that I, along with each and every guest who orders the TB basket with bottomless fries, would immediately do so.

On second thought, this phenomenon might cause your establishment’s corporate headquarters to remove the TB from the menu, as the media is not always kind, and might paint such human-explosions in a negative light.

So while I do not actually desire for your menu items to cause spontaneous combustion, I can think of no more fitting metaphor for my newfound love affair with your turkey burgers and I hope you find this explanation for my behavior this afternoon suitable and that you will promptly remove my name from your nationwide “Do Not Serve” list.

Yours ever-so-truly,

3 thoughts on “Letter from a holding cell, pt. 1

  1. Mel says:

    Pray tell, where did you get this orgasmic TB?

  2. theotherjulie says:

    …an establishment known as Red Robin. I was hesitant to go there at first, because I heard that they did things like put pineapple slices or fried mozzarella sticks on their hamburgers. My TB, however, was simple unadulterated glory.

  3. michelle says:

    Julie, I love your blog. It makes me smile 🙂

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