And then you cook your enormous burger patties, and what do you get? Huge wads of unpleasantly undifferentiated pink mush, sheathed in not nearly enough crisply charred beef. Big boring slabs of cow-pudding that slide out of the far end of the bun whenever you try to bite them, and then avenge the grisly violence of their origin by unleashing raging torrents of rendered beef fat down your neck to saturate your shirt, and you have to spear them with a goddamn popsicle stick to get them to just stay the fuck in place, and this isn't like eating a burger at all but like some kind of humiliating goddamn Candid Camera segment and you hate it and yourself and everything. And then all your guests rise from their chairs in unison, shake their heads in bitter disappointment, and point at you in silence; you, the thoughtless grillmaster who ruined their Memorial Day, who never should have been trusted with the food in the first place, who, remember that time back in 1994 when he drove the lawnmower over a tree-stump and broke it and got a flying wood-chip stuck in Uncle Walter's buttcheek? God, he's always been a loser. We should go. Let's go.
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