The Fast-Food Calorie Counter And A Completely Unrelated Story About Porn

It was the most ironic thing.

I was recently standing in line at a fast-food joint, and this guy behind me was debating over what he was going to order.  I was too, so I initially thought nothing of it.  But then I heard him say the word, “calories,” and I began to listen more closely.  It was within seconds that I came to discover:

He was debating over what he was going to order based on the calorie counts of each menu item.

Unbelievable.

Recently, most of the major fast-food franchises have been making public the nutritional information regarding the items on their menus, as part of their ongoing quest to further health-ify their images.  Many of them have a display somewhere in the restaurant, and others will give you a sheet of paper with the data upon request.

I honestly don’t understand why fast-food restaurants are bothering with posting the nutritional facts.  The fact that we eat there in the first place ought to tell them that we obviously don’t give a SHIT about calorie counts.  That’s why we eat at fast-food joints: we don’t WANT to fuckin’ count calories!  We just want to get in, eat our shit, and go.  We already made the decision to eat here—clearly health is NOT a major concern for us.

That guy behind me in line was an idiot.  To even try to look at fast-food from a health standpoint is the absolute wrong way to go about it.  It completely misses the point.  Counting calories at a fast-food joint is like going to a porn shop to make a new friend.  Or practicing to be a suicide bomber.

That reminds me of a story, related to and apropos of nothing stated earlier in this post except for something in that last paragraph.  I’ve told this story before on my Facebook profile, but it’s been a while and it’ll be new here. (And no, this does not mean I am out of ideas to write about.  This story is definitely worth repeating.)

Downtown Nashville has a porn shop named Hustler Hollywood, named for, yes, THAT Hustler (ironically enough, located on a road ACTUALLY called Church Street—I am dead serious).  First of all, I know that most porn shops have that stigma of being nasty, grungy, icky places—and that’s true for a lot of them—but Hustler Hollywood is actually nice.  Like, REALLY nice.  It’s like a fuckin’ Macy’s in there. (Bonus local reference for Nashvillians: It’s like the Green Hills Mall of porn shops.)

As I stated before, porn shops are not the place for people to try to make friends, although there is often a community mindset.  After all, everyone is there for the exact same reason.  But it’s a reason that shows people at their most vulnerable, and everyone is aware of that, so they generally steer clear of interaction with other shoppers (which is a weird word to use in that context, but I can’t think of one better).  They just sort of give an acknowledging nod and shuffle on by.  Porn shops are not a place for conversations.

Occasionally, however, some people don’t get the memo.

I was once in the Hustler Hollywood, perusing the aisles. (No, I didn’t buy anything, but I’ll be damned if I wasn’t going to look around.)  I started looking at the videos, when I noticed a gentleman, roughly a few years my senior, slowly gravitating in my direction.  I caught him in my peripheral vision, and without calling any attention to his advances, I casually walked over to another shelf of videos.

He followed me to the other shelf.

At this point, my mind was put on alert.  Oh shit, I thought, I think this guy’s gonna talk to me!  HE’S GONNA BREAK THE CODE! I contemplated moving into the gay porn section, just to throw him off.  But then my self-consciousness kicked in.  “What if he sees me go into the gay section, and then he thinks I’m gay?  Or even worse, what if I go into the gay section, and it turns out HE’S gay?  I’d be ganged up by all the gay!  Caught in the cornhole corner!  ABORT!” I ultimately decided to venture into the ethnic porn section, because I figured if I’m leaving him with some kind of impression, then goddamnit: might as well make him think I’m CULTURED.  Hey, I like Hispanic music, Hispanic cuisine, Hispanic art—why not Hispanic porn?

But it was all to no avail, as he finally approached me.  And in that moment, I looked up towards the heavens, into the face of God—well, actually, it was just a poster of Jenna Jameson—and accepted the fate that was inevitable.  This guy was obviously on a mission to say something to me, so I gave in, planted my feet, and took a deep breath:

“Man, I prefer girl-on-girl porn, ’cause I just can’t stand lookin’ at dudes’ penises.”

…nice to meet you, too.

That was his ice-breaker.  Not, “what kind of porn do you like?”  Not, “who’s your favorite pornstar?”  Not even a simple, “what’s up, man?”  No, this gentleman decided to introduce himself by revealing his MOST DEEPLY PERSONAL MASTURBATORY FETISH.  And then he walked away.  Now those words are going to be in my head forever.  I will never be able to un-know that fact.  And, because I will probably never cross paths with him again, I will never have the chance to find out why he chose to say THAT to me instead of something else.

Then again, if that was his most personable thought at the time, I’d be afraid to find out what his other options were.  I thought to myself, This is it.  I’ve officially seen EVERYTHING.

And then, as I headed towards the exit, I saw him holding two videos, and he was debating over which video to buy based on the girl-on-girl scene counts in each one.

Until next time,

–Riley