A Culture of Worship: The Worst Thing I've Ever Done

On the front page of the Des Moines Register there lay an article introducing Burger King’s next Frankenstenian masterpiece, the bacon sundae. My first and immediate thought: I’m having one today. Such a creation has some of my favorite things: bacon, ice cream, shame, and a promise for an early, heart-attack-diabetic-shock-induced death.

I invited my friend Anna Aderton, who was waiting for her husband Dan to return from Thailand. If there was one thing I knew about events like these, it’s that misery loves company.

When I was in high school, I had a similar experience at Wendy’s and their infamous Baconator. (THE BACONATOR! THEY’RE PURPOSELY REFERENCING A WORD THAT CONNOTATES KILLING AND DEATH! THEY’RE NOT EVEN TRYING TO HIDE THE FACT THAT IT WILL INDEED KILL YOU!) My friend Connor and I ate a Baconator for lunch and it single handedly wrecked my day, it was like an immediate hangover. I was depressed for the next week, and watched Dawson’s Creek reruns in my basement.

I picked up Anna, who out of some childlike, Christmas-morning, restlessness had already walked to the corner of the street. “I’m so excited I got to come!” she exclaimed as she entered the car. A man’s sin, one can bear alone. But woe to the one who causes another to stumble. The millstone had tightened. I was now in the hands of a living God.

After the front-page dedication, and knowing man’s lust for all things evil, I was surprised to see the parking lot relatively empty. We walked in, and there was no line either. I wasn’t sure if this was encouraging or ominous. There was no fan fare, no grand banner, no advertising, it wasn’t even on the menu. It was as if Burger King knew that it had gone too far this time, and even they were ashamed.

Cathy, our sweet server, took our order. We asked if she had made a bacon sundae yet, and she said no. Had she tried one though? “Oh goodness, no.” Cathy went over and began to make something she had never made before, and hopefully would never make again. She leaned over and squinted at the directions, pausing now and then, as if trying to ignore the guilt of being an accomplice to such a horrifying reality. I half expected her to go to the back and return with a hazmat suit. She constructed the beast carefully, like any other sundae, but then picked up the bowl of bacon, and placed each piece down slowly, the weight of the slabs making her wince, she looked at us with mournful eyes. And like Eve handing over the fruit to Adam, gave us over to our deaths.

Death itself is not merely satisfied with taking away life, but also stripping away all humanity, all dignity. We went into the playroom, alone with our shame. Maybe we believed that we could conjure up an innocent ignorance, a youthful exemption of all guilt and shame. In its place, however, was only an empty and eerie irony as the bright reds, blues and greens surrounded us with the hellish echoes of Sponge Bob Square Pants squealing from the television.

We ate our fill. Anna stated the guilty ambivalence of regret and unrepentance: “That was really good. But I’m never going to eat another one again.”

I carried an internal dialogue with my once close friend:

[Jake awakens from a greasy, disorienting coma]

Jake: Who’s there! Who is it!

Voice: It’s me. Have you forgotten my voice already?

Jake: Dignity? Wha… What are you doing here? Don’t look at me!

Dignity: How did it get this far?

Jake [beginning to cry]: I’m so sorry. I don’t know!

Dignity: My poor, poor friend. What have you done?

Jake: IT WAS SO GOOD!

Dignity: This one is over the line.

Jake: I LOVE BACON SO MUCH!