The horror that dare not speak its name is the McDonalds Shamrock Shake. I have had one of these every year since they came out, and you would think I would learn my lesson. This thing is not a food product. It is like someone added water to toothpaste and poured it in a cup and threw it in the freezer for a couple of hours. It has the texture of melted cake frosting, and looks like a leprechaun took a shit in a McDonalds and they scooped it up for the dessert menu.
|It looks like Slimer jerked off into a cup...|
Yet, knowing all of this, I pulled into the drive through the second I heard that they were back until St. Patrick's Day, a day known for poor decisions, and ordered a medium. I paid my money and felt a shiver of anticipation that one can only feel when about to poison themselves willingly as I pulled forward and received that demonic paper cup and wrapped straw.
I couldn't even wait to get out of the parking lot before ripping the straw open and plunging it home. That first drink was like the tears of an angel that had been dipped in creme de menth booze and set aflame with the fires of sex and happy bunnies. Yeah, it was that good. Unfortunately, there was a second drink.
The second drink of any Shamrock Shake has a steep drop off, from heavenly bunny fire to something between listening to Kanye West talk about how he's the voice of a generation and taking sandpaper impregnated with rock salt to a wound still full of broken glass. It is at this point that I should have stopped drinking.
I'm not particularly proud to admit that I did not.
|This accurately measures how friggin' dumb I am.|
Instead, I just kept drinking it until I got home, and then sent it on the counter as I came inside, half finished, mocking me there as I put away my purse and coat. I stared at it for a few minutes, then turned and went to do something else. This is where the biggest mistake comes in.
There is a large amount of shame in this next part. When I returned to the kitchen a few hours later...I took another drink. This time, it was not cold, nor trying to resemble ice cream, nor freshly turned. It was like drinking something that had been sitting in the draft from Satan's asshole, and I gagged right into the sink.
I spent the rest of the night swearing that I was going to die, that I was going to puke up my own intestines, and that perhaps, just perhaps, I had opened a doorway to Hell through which creatures of insanity-causing horror were going to emerge, having sacrificed myself on some unknown alter built into our married quarters kitchen. Point is, I poured the rest of it down the sink.
|Yep, Bosch painted this after drinking a Shamrock Shake.|
So did I learn a lesson? Probably not. I admit, I will probably continue to get things like Shamrock Shakes and aloe vera juice and organic grain cereal that looks like something that I might have scooped out of the cat's litter box. Why? Because I'm stupid, that's why.