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Another point for younger readers: at the time of this tale, burgers like Whoppers and Big Macs were still always served up in flip-top boxes--a step above the old Styrofoam containers.
“You’re going to throw it out the window while doing 75?” I said, barely believing it. He laughed, nodding, got a grip on the box,
and poised his left hand near the window. Cautiously, he checked his
rearview to make
It wouldn’t have mattered if there were. The Whopper never made it out the window. An open window directly to his left, and the damn fool couldn’t even toss out a hamburger. He was holding on to the back side of the box, where the "hinge" part was, and should have held it from the front. As he let loose with a left arm full of power, the front of the box opened up. He had a good grip on the box, but the box had no grip on the Whopper. The box went hurtling out the window, leaving the Whopper chasing close behind because it had slipped out of the box--or rather, the box had slipped out from around it.
It was certainly unforgettable. We still laugh about that but since then we have tried to throw no Whoppers out any windows. |
This
one is so damn funny that I have to tell you about it. However, be
fairly forewarned: you had to be there. It's probably only quite this
funny to us. Also, this was in 1987, so we were barely finished being
kids; otherwise, we'd never condone littering.
We were in Dave's car, on a two hour trip
from Bangor to Portland. The trip had been uneventful thus far, save for
Dave chanting a few verses of, “Oh, on a quiet night in Maine/You can hear
the Chevys rust." We had stopped off at a Burger King in Waterville, and
after heading off again (in the wrong direction at first, might I add;
Dave was driving) I became full and could not polish off my Double Whopper
with Cheese. Dave, who had just eaten a salad (strict diet, you see)
volunteered to eat the rest of the Whopper (strict diet, you see). After a
few bites, he decided he was full (strict diet, you see), and announced
that he could eat no more.
We were doing seventy-five down Interstate
95, mostly alone on this stretch of highway; so Dave, a devious look in
his eyes and an evil smile crossing his face, rolled down the window with
one hand while closing the Whopper up in its box with the other. I forget
whether he grew a third hand to steer or if I took the wheel... at any
rate, I started laughing.
sure
there were no motorists close behind us.
The box bounced down I-95 while the Whopper
collided with the door just inches before the original destination point.
The burger exploded against the door and the door, the floor, the driver’s
seat, the driver, and the steering wheel were covered in ketchup and mayo.
Pickles and tomatoes went airborne, flying this way and that; the
hamburger patty hit the floor; one of the rolls hit the door and oozed
down, leaving a trail of burger-gunk behind it.
I laughed so hard. I can't put the
situation into appropriate words for you to understand it without you
having been there. I was doubled over, half under the dashboard, laughing
my ass off, and David broke into fits of laughter as well. Here we are,
driving very fast, losing control of ourselves as well as well as the car,
the remnants of a Whopper all over the driver’s side and the driver’s lap.
Eventually, the Whopper made it out the window (in pieces, one by one),
and we were cleaned up, but not after Dave had to pull over because he was
laughing so hard he couldn't drive.