First things first: the Filet-O-Fish is a great burger. If you don’t agree, click away. Or read on. I’m not your boss.
To prove to the world – and myself – just how delicious the Filet-O-Fish really is, I decided to eat one for every single meal for an entire week. It seemed like more of a treat than a challenge.
That turned out to be the underestimation of the year (and there’ve been quite a few).
By the end of my tartar sauce-scented journey I had well and truly transcended all carnal desires on this Earth. Let’s unpack.
I’m really fucking particular about what I eat for breakfast. It’s either cereal, or some other breakfast-adjacent dish like toast, or bacon and eggs.
But the Filet-O-Fish holds up surprisingly well for my first breakfast of the week. The imitation brioche bun goes down a treat at this time of day, the fish patty is kind of edible before midday, and the tartar sauce is, well, tolerable.
Come midday and I’m already up to my second Filet-O-Fish for lunch. This time around there’s no immediate smack of flavour, however the burger is moreish nonetheless.
It’s no longer a treat, but rather the sustenance I crave.
By dinner time, I haven’t actually had the desire to eat anything since lunch.
When pitching this story, I promised my editors that I’d up my fruit and veg intake so as to not get, I dunno, scurvy. So far, that’s been a lie.
Anyway, dinner was nice, and it didn’t leave me feeling empty despite the burger’s light buns and fish patty.
It felt like a big fish finger. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but all the delicate intricacies of the burger were lost on me by now (as they are on most other people, most of the time).
Rise and shine, burger bitches.
My breakky burg squirted all over me. It was kinda hot.
That’s not just the tartar sauce, either. With every bite I ravished this Filet-O-Fish, and the moisture from the American cheese and fish patty somehow got splattered all over my face and knees.
Did you know the Filet-O-Fish is only available after 10:30 AM? I didn’t. But that doesn’t matter because I’m a late riser whomst’ve eateth a late breakfast.
For lunch, an ibis with discerning taste had the audacity to try and peck the Filet-O-Fish out of my hands. It was scared away when my housemate bumped into me shamefully hunched over my week’s entire food pyramid.
Dinner time, y’all.
At this point, the burger has no flavour or texture to speak of. It’s just matter which I’m shoving down my gob in an increasingly manic way.
The staff at Macca’s haven’t recognised me yet, but the people watching me eat in the park sure have.
By now everyone’s been telling me my breath stinks. I for one do not blame the Filet-O-Fish. Maybe it’s just my gut flora up to no good.
Oh, and I’ve also completely lost my appetite by now. I constantly feel full. Eating is but a folly distraction only the weak partake in. Cool.
Nevertheless, breakfast must go on.
Lunch was more of a chore than a calling.
Burger goes in, nothing comes out. It’s this repeat transaction of infinite addition that my days have come to revolve around.
As for dinner, it’s more or less the same story.
I spend my night walking the lonely streets of Sydney, gagging over seafood burger.
It’s breakfast time, but I don’t even want to get out of bed. I’m just not hungry in the slightest.
All forms of desire are starting to wither out of my soul. I lay here in bed, transcending earthly urges.
But the challenge must go on, and so I plod along to Macca’s and force myself to ingest yet another Filet-O-Fish.
At lunch time, I realise that I’m not even eating snacks anymore. I only consume the Filets-O-Fish I must have in order to complete the challenge.
With no appetite to speak of, I can only make room in my tummy for the next burg.
In a frantic attempt to reconstruct some semblance of a food pyramid into my diet, I’ve started to go to Top Juice several times a day.
I’m now spending as much on minty kale juice as I am on Filets-O-Fish
I can’t even taste anything at dinner.
All I do is salivate, not at the taste, nor the smell, nor the texture. It’s the ~thought~ of the burg that triggers my most natural of body processes.
Another Filet-O-Fish goes in.
I’m become more and more slovenly w̷͚̑i̸̼̍t̵̯̎h̷̅͜ ̸͙͝e̷͐ͅâ̵̪ć̷̱h̶͇̅ ̵͓̅b̴̥̕i̴̛͇t̸͓͛ȩ̴̃ as the days go on. From breakfast onwards, there’s always tartar sauce on my face now.
It’s an aura that follows me wherever I go. I smell a̶̛͔̬̝͇͕̯̤͎̹̳̯̠͎͍̜̳̠̓́͂͗͆̿͊̓͒̐̽̍̚̚͝ṃ̵̙͙̭̠̖̯͖̯̼͚̓͋͑̉́̓́͐̒͗͑̃̈́͜͠ͅa̸̡̡̨̜̥̳͙͖̯͉̟̞͉͗͛̈̇̍̃̑͂̀̉̿̎̃͗̀̆́̏̄͠z̴̨̢̨̛̻͔͚͕̾̏͐̇̑̅̓͗͌̏͂̚̚͝ͅi̵̡͕̹͓̮̱͉͎̝̯̞̯̣̣̭͉̒̈́͜ͅn̸̠̹̰͚̻̘̎͝ͅģ̴̣̪́̀̓́̕͝.
At lunch, I wipe this tartar sauce from my face as a kind of ablution before consuming the flesh of Ronald McDonald himself. The fish and bun is his earthly body, but there’s no wine to signify his blood.
The t̴̪͕̀a̸̗̥͝͝r̶̟̓̽ẗ̵̟́͝a̶̡͗r̶͎̬̈ ̸͖̇̈́s̸̟̏̓a̴̟͔̐ù̷͖̖č̵̮̟͗e̵͔͍̔ will suffice.
It’s dinner time and I’m once again called to consume yet another Filet-O-Fish in a carnal act of devotion and reverence to the burg which I love so dearly.
With each bite – PRAISE.
W̸i̸t̴h̴ ̸e̷a̷c̶h̸ ̷b̴i̶t̴e̸ ̷–̴ ̶P̶R̷A̸I̷S̵E̴.̴
W̷̲̻̃͌̍i̷͙̳̒̏t̸͚̫̀̏h̸̰̤̀̑͜͝ ̵̗̪̓̏̉e̷̘͔͛͘a̸̼̹̿̾̈́ċ̵̨̭͉͊̀h̶̳̝̮̍̐ ̶̼̣̏̍b̸͓̩͉̾̏ì̸͖̳͓̽t̵̘̀e̸̳͎͑͒̌ ̵̱̈́̑–̴̛̭̞̈́͝ ̵̘̈́P̵̨̝̈͂͝R̶̡̈́͘A̷̼͂̓̾Ḭ̴̩̬̋̈̇S̶̩̀̒͑E̸̮̓̓.̸̡͖͗͋͒
I soar Ḧ̶̤̈́I̴̫̤̔͜G̴̰̍H̷̟̓͆̾ ̴̯͗̓A̶̻͒̉̃B̸̲̯̣̓̑O̶̲̽͛̚V̴̰̞̻̽̇̽Ê̷̹̫͈ the mortals in the street who are beholden to their feeble n̵o̶t̸i̷o̴n̷s̴ ̴o̴f̸ ̶h̸u̶n̷g̸e̵r̴.
A raging lust for the Filet-O-Fish emanates from the bowels of my bowels as I wait in line at Macca’s for breakfast.
No, I’m not hungry. You fools. I am D̶̰̥̻̾̒̍̊̒E̴̘͕̍̿͘V̶̲̙̉͒̏̔O̷͖̙̘̤͌̃͊͘͜T̸͔̈́͂̐Ĕ̶̥͚͖̳͇D̷͉̝͖͐́̓͗.
My lunchtime muse is the blessed Filet-O-Fish. With each bite, I feel a rush – physically, spiritually, vorarephilicly.
I arrive home. The tartar sauce residue from the 17 Filet-O-Fish boxes I have so far accumulated in my room festers like the élan vital perspired by a victorious army returning from battle.
I bask in my stuffy, fishy sauna of the ḃ̸̟͎͇̪e̸̝̋͆̀̄ļ̷̛̱̦̳̿̑͜o̸̢̺̹̥͛͗̊v̷͙̤̹̙̫͐̾̎ę̸͌͐̌̏̚d̶̲̤̈͋̈́̓́ ̵̫̈́b̵̧̞̭̎͒́̿́ṵ̴̲͑̎̄r̴̥͇̘̮̾̿̑g̴̢̛͍͘ͅ.
My desire for dinner is in fact sheer lust. With every gulp, yet another chunk of the burg is inside of me.
My housemates join me for the walk, but they end up ordering KFC. They’re weak.
Spitters are sinners, and s̴͔̋̓p̸̤̈́i̶̗͋t̸̮̓͂t̸̠̊e̶̙̍ŗ̵̠̅̃s̸̫̑ ̶̺̋͝ȧ̵̧͇r̵̖͗ë̴͔́̎͜ ̷̣̅̐q̴̞͚̿̉ǘ̵̥̇î̵͉͝t̷̖̔t̷̰̯͒̚e̸̟̻̓̄r̷̪͓̎͒s̴̒̑ͅ.
Every time I consume the B̴̩̌U̴̧̟̕R̷̥̪̋G̷̡̈́Ĕ̵͓̈R̴̗̀͒, the B̵̛̞̲̳͇̩̙̪͉͈̻̳̊̀̂̑̊͐̅̿̈̌͠ͅŨ̸̡͔͕̻̙̞̻̈̽́̃̈́̒̄̓̆͊͠Ṛ̵̞̊̈͋͗̚G̷̣͙̹̮̞̯̠͎͆͛͠E̵̱͉͙̹̞̝̩̬̗͉͂͛͌͐̅͛̓̄͗̉̕ͅR̴̼̦̍͋́̿͂̕̕͘ consumes me.
The Filet-O-Fish and I become one more intimately than any bond known to mankind thus far.
A̷̦̍̌G̴̢͎̕͠I̵̧͎̊̾O̵̼͎̊͝Š̵̞͙̈́ ̶̳͛O̸̖̼͐͊ ̷̖̰͐͗B̴̍̽͜Ä̶̳͍́̌P̷͖̹̔̓H̸̻̩̀Ȏ̴̱͐Ṁ̴̭͍̉E̶͔̕͝T̶̼͝,̷̪͗ ̷͓̃K̷̞̇̉Ë̵̟́E̵̛͎P̸̦̉͜E̶̦̅͐R̶̬̘̒́ ̴̺́̐O̶̠͘F̸̬̬̉ ̶̟̐T̸̬̱̋Ȟ̶͇̈́Ȇ̵͎̳ ̷͈̬͗̐F̵͕͛̿I̸͎̹͝L̸͕͆Ě̸̗̞T̸̟͕̉̇-̵̡̱̐Ô̶̼-̵̫͘F̵̟̈́͜I̶̯̊S̷̠̘͆̌H̷͎̀.̵̯͎̑͑
̵̟̪̒͑M̷̺̏͐A̶̻͗Y̴̰̟̓͝ ̸̪͌ͅT̸̰͍͆̒H̵͔͋͆Ę̵̀ ̷̯̃̌F̶͚̈́Ĕ̶͓͓R̵̟̲͆̒T̷̹͊I̸̭͕̅Ḷ̶͒́Ẻ̵̮̦͛ ̸̳̔̓S̴͖̎Ó̷͎͈͠IL̶̼̄ ̷̱͌Ǒ̸̧F̶̞̈̉ ̴̘̈́T̶̰̍͠H̴̤̐E̶̤̘̊͐ ̵̮̈́̇Ţ̶̈Ě̴̲̗R̷͖̋R̸̠̞̃E̵̤̙͐̊Ṡ̷̗̍ͅT̵̙͝Ȑ̴̢I̴̪͚͌A̴̘͆L̵̦̙̾ ̷̪́̓P̶̥̞̽͋A̵̬̱͠R̴͖̘͐Á̵͎̈́D̸̛̟̥I̸͖͇̊͝Ş̵͈̎͝Ĕ̷͍́ ̸͍̃ͅB̷͕̮̅̚E̶̯̕ ̴̛̭̥̇I̸̝̒R̶̙͖̽̌R̷̡̗͝I̴̳̓̊Ḡ̸͚̘̀A̵̲͎͝T̴̢͌E̸̠͖̚D̷̠̔ ̷̘͝W̴̙͝I̶͓̚T̴̨͂͆H̸͇̖̉̕ ̶̡̤̽T̷̘̑H̵̰̗̉Ê̶̙̚ ̶͇͂B̶̰̟̎̓Ĺ̵͇O̴͚̍Ȯ̶͎̟̐D̸̞̓͠ ̸͍͉̔̍O̸̱͖̽F̸̲̔̇ ̷̛̺̤H̸̠̝́̄Ề̴̜͙ ̷͉̳͋͝Ẅ̶̢̍H̶͎̦̚Ő̴̟͊ ̴̘̳̕L̴͔͐Ṳ̸͈̊̏Ṡ̸̘̒T̶̘̽̊S̴̙̒͆͜ ̵̦̪̉͑F̵̳̠͊̿O̴͚̼͑Ŕ̸͕̩͂ ̴͕̇̎T̵̼͎̍Ḧ̵̨̧͌Ë̶̺͔́ ̶̻͌F̶͕̭̃̀I̶̫̲̔̔L̷̨̺̀́E̵͓͔̓T̷̜͖͗-̵̻͓̐Ỏ̴̘͊-̴̦̮̉͝F̷̧͍͌͠I̶̱̼̚͝S̴̨͍͋̒H̶͍̰̆̽.̸̩̄͑
̵̙̀T̴̙̖͛͠H̷͎͗R̵̺̙͆Ȏ̸̥͉͊Ṵ̷̙̈́͠G̴̞͖̃̕H̶̠̻̉͑ ̸̳̖̀̄I̷̤͇̒̚M̷̩̦͠M̵͍̟̀A̵͓̎͋̐C̶̬̜̜͆̚U̵̹̺͋L̵̠̪̈ͅA̶̢͍̅͝T̶̥̤́͋E̵̩̣̰̊̈́̇ C̴͇̠͝Ô̵̢̰̍Ń̵̲̟̂Ṣ̴̅̇Ú̵͖̲M̶̬̤̊P̴̟͓̂̊T̶̨̲́Ì̶̠̆Ó̷̖Ņ̷̍ ̸̟̔̃W̷̢̧̨̢̜͚̤̩͚̯̦̙̥̥͉͎̮͍̼͇̣̰̙̭̉̔͗̉̔̆͌̔̽̽̉͛̑̋̄́̋̾̀̕ͅͅË̷̛̳̥̭̻̹͍͎͚͈̱̝̯͖͚̱͎̼̝͌̂͑̋̇̍͊̅̊̒̎͂̋̾͑̑̎̋̃̋͊̈́͋́̀̈́͒͒̃̀̚͘̚̕͠͝͠͝ ̷̢̡̛̛̻̫̞̘͈̭̲̮̙̮̣͈͚͔͚̟̘̳͇͍͖̣̮̑̄̈́̍̊̏̑͒̌͋͂͗̅̈́̑̈́̀̏́̽͊͑̾̽̈́̈́͒͒̾̏̂̚̚̕͘͝͝͝͝ͅḂ̴̮̟͉̲̹̬̠̺̦̘͓͔̤̬͌̄͐̄͊̏̉͋͆̀͘͝E̶̡̨̢̛̼͇͈̼̟̱̱̖̻̩̙̭̝͚͎̠̳͕͖̣̬̘͖̠̮͇̪͕̹͓̗̳̘͔͐͛̊̌̓͗̾̂̍̄̋̍͛̈́́́̽̉̀̂̀͆̑̅͛̉̈͂̔͌̕̕͝ͅͅC̸̢̡͈͉̩̪͖̗̘̖͚̙̗̼̼͖̻̤͈̖̻̬̎̔̋̿͜ͅͅO̷͇͈̪̾͊̅̃͌̋̋́̄̒͆̔̽̇̑̑̔̏̐͗̏́̇̀͛̚͘̕̚͠͠͝͝M̵̛̛̘̐̃͆̅̉̐̈́͛͗́̄̈́̐̿͆̾̀͆̈́́͗͆̔̐̄̍̒̍̄̚͠E̶͉̻͚͉̞͌̾͝ ̴̡̡̥̫͎̤̞̞̻̹̝̉̎͂̃͌̇̈́̈́̇́U̵̧̧̟̬͖͕̖̥̰̦̭̻̱͉̙̲̜̙̪̗̥͈̩̗̺̘̝̹̲͙̥̥͈̽̉̂́͑̀̒͑̄͑̇̂͂̽̾͘͜N̵̛̛̮̱̙͓̒͆͐͆̋̂̋̐̇̐̀̀̑̑̋͋̂̏̽͐̈̔͒̓̂̄I̴̢̨̢̛̲̞͈̤̫̭̖̱̮̬̻̳̝͙̩̭̬̜̗̦̮̘̫̪͓̗̞̰̐́̂͆̓̀̃̓͋͊̐̈̅̈́̐̎͊͂̐̀̅͊̍̌̄̅̈́͌̃̏͒̅̔̌͛͒̈́̿̓̌̚͜͜͝͠͠͝ͅF̴̡̢̨̧̢̡̤̲͓̜͙̥̞̩̟̳̬͙̼̤̞̟͖̰̜̘̤̟͓̼̪͓̼̝̈̓I̵̡̨̛̛̛̛̛̞̹͖̼̺̥͈̫̜͎͉͖̦̟̣̹̺̟̙̥̜͈̹͚̣̞̝̥̻̮̘̞̟͖̟̝͌̐̓͐̾͋̿̀̀̀́̀̍́̈́̇͒̍͛̓̓́̕͘͜͝ͅȨ̷̧̨̨̨̛͙͓̰̝̗͎̯̙͕͙̼̯̦̩͇̼̙̥̘̤̈́̌̀͛͊͂̅͂̏̈́̂̿́͊̃̀̀̄̓̾́̈́̚̚͝͝Ḑ̶̡̡̡̨̢͍̮̝̙̫͙̼̗͚͔̻͈̦̝̪̤̖̱̙͎̣̫̤̟͚̣̣͔͍̼̝̗̞̖̘̦̜̙͊̋̿̀͗͋͗̉̊̐́̆͒͂͌̈́̅̊̚̚͜͜͠ ̵͎̖̰̮̮͖̻̙̣̤͉̰̲̼̱̾̂́̔́̍̔̅͗̄͌͊̐͂́̒͊̽͗͘͝͠͝͝A̷̡̢͚̼̯̦͓͎̼̣̝̠̦̱̗̼̮̦̣͙̼̺̜̦̰̱̫͇̥̖̰͇̠̹̲̗̩̬̗͌͗̎̅̐̊̀̏̂̉̑̀̍̾̌̐̓͌̑̉́̑͗͌̀̀͊̀̒̒͐̃̅̚͘͘̚͜͜͝S̷̛̪̳̭̯̹̦̥̟͕̳̐͆̊̀̀̀̽̍͑̉̍̆̿̆̋͒̀̀͊͛̎̃̈́́͌̈́͂̐̍̍̚̕̕͝͝ ̵͖͍̺̣̳͒͆̿̄͑̄̔́̓̚̕Ǫ̶̹̝̤̀̆̽̃́͒̓̀̍̒͒͌̒̊̔͛͋̄̂͗͐́͗̊͗̍̓̐̓̊̆͗͌͆͘̚̚̕͘͝͝͝N̵̡̨̖̠̯͉͍̻̤̙̙̰̼̺̼̥͎̭̗̣̗̰̞͕̯̙̙͔͖̦̯͈̩̐̏͂́̽͗͂́̓͘̚͝͝E̷̢̧̡̧̛͎̺̞͎̟͖̜̦̪̯̤͇͉̠͉͇͖̫͙̖̬̜͔̗̙̱̭̯͌͋̔̈̋͛̇̍̾̽̎̎̂͒̎̅̅́͋͆̄̀́̓͊͋̕͜͠͠͝ͅ.̷̛͖̅͋̄̈́͛͗̎̔̿̏̿̃̀̑͛͑̾͝͝͝
The Filet-O-Fish is a good burg. 9/10, would recommend.
If you don’t believe that I really did eat all those burgers, I have nothing for you other than my above testimony and a wad of Macca’s receipts.
Now, to guzzle coffee for a whole week, not for the energy boost but in the hope I can shit my brains out.
Postscript, one week on: My tummy is still perpetually upset and I’m thinking of seeing a doctor. I’m also pissing more frequently than a dog with a gut parasite. Maybe that’s TMI but you’ve read this far anyway.
Postscript, two weeks on: I’m feeling better now.