“I have decided to kill myself.” I announced, storming through the front door of my apartment.
“Oh, really?” Said my roommate, not even looking away from the television.
“Yep,” I replied, barreling onward. “I’m going to commit suicide, become a statistic, disappoint my friends and family, all of it.”
“And just how do you plan on committing said act? Hopefully in a way that won’t leave a mess. I’d hate to lose our deposit.” He retorted, nonplussed.
“I’m going to eat a Dyers’s burger every day until I die.” I leapt onto the couch, striking a majestic pose. “I am going to dance a the tango of gastric, cardiopulmonary death with century-old grease.”
At this he paused the game and looked up, eyebrow arched. “I think they’re still open. We could get started on this endeavor right now. Why put off ‘til tomorrow what you can start today?”
I looked down at him with a wild eye. “That sounds like a marvelous idea.”
He turned off the tv and grabbed his keys. “You know, the next time you wanted to get a burger, you could just say so.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I answered with a lively grin.
Dyer’s Burgers. The home of the 99 year-old (and counting) grease. Where the burgers are deep fried, and you know they’re done when they float. Where the meat, cheese and bun merge into a symphony of arterial death that tastes like nothing else on the planet. Everyone needs to eat one before they die. But I probably can’t recommend more than one, because you might actually die.