By Ashley Lister
Love or sex? The choice is simple. And it’s analogous to popping into any burger joint.
I recently remember reading a sign that said, ‘Going to a burger joint for a salad is like going to a brothel for a hug.’ But, when you visit any burger joint, the choice is always more than just a burger or a salad. Nowadays these places offer you a hundred different types of burger, with or without cheese, and coated in a variety of different sauces. There are chicken-burgers, turkey-burgers, beef-burgers, hamburgers and so many other burgers, made from such a wide variety of animals, I’m surprised that unicorn and dragon aren’t on the menu.
And, which item do I always choose from the burger joint’s mouth-watering menu?
I’ll be honest and admit that I pause at the counter and consider my choice. I do this for two reasons. Primarily, I do this because I’m not an impulsive person and I do relish the opportunity to make a considered decision. However, I also take my time because I know it pisses off the people in the queue who are standing behind me, and that sort of malevolence is always entertaining.
And I enjoy looking at the pictures on the burger joint’s walls. Being a writer of fiction I’m often accused of distorting reality for my own purposes. Seriously, if I ever distort reality as much as the twunts who take those photographs, I’ll happily admit to the crime of egregiously glamorizing fiction. The pictures on the walls of a burger joint bear no similarity to the shrivelled slices of stale bread and the segment of unwiped cow-arse that the patty-jockeys eventually pass over the counter. I have yet to see a better representation of Saussure’s hypothesis on the arbitrary relationship between a sign and its referent than the relationship between those photographs and the chunks of greasy minced bovine peddled in a typical burger bar.
But, when I’m making choice, I always pick the same thing. I always pick the one item that will give me the greatest satisfaction and the fullest sensation of a lingering warmth inside. Quite often that lingering warmth inside turns out to be some sort of e-coli infection, or gastroenteritis. But I try not to order it by those names because it tends to upset the counter staff and the first rule of ordering anything from a burger joint is never annoy the guy who’s got a chance to garnish your food with a splash of his own special sauce.
The same thing is true with the choice between love or sex. Given the opportunity, I’d prefer to take both. But if I’ve got to have one or the other, I’ll always go with love.
Woody Allen reminded us that sex without love is an empty experience. As I recall, he went on to explain that, as far as empty experiences go, it’s one of the better ones. But if I’m after enjoying empty experiences, I can think of far more titillating ways to wile away my dwindling free time. Hanging around burger joints and admiring the fantasy artwork is always a good place to start. Especially if it pisses off the other customers waiting in the queue behind me.
You might think I’m being a hopeless old romantic, especially with Valentine’s Day being just around the corner. You’d probably be right. But it’s my choice and you can’t prove otherwise.
And, now you know my preferences between love or sex, would you like me to supersize you?