Damn Dog Ate My Big Mac

After stopping at the Golden Arches for some $1 Big Macs (on days that the Cards play in the playoffs), Jen noticed that the water was shut off in the house. I set my half-eaten sandwich down on the footstool and run outside, as if I could do something about it. Our neighbor’s fiancee told us that it was shut off for the whole neighborhood and that all the utility companies had been swarming around while we sat through the crapfest that was Elizabethtown.

Satisfied, we returned to find a guilty-looking dog licking her chops. I sat down and prepared to resume my delicious calorie-laden feast. Alas, my Big Mac was nowhere to be found. I called in the CSI Unit and we determined that the empty Big Mac container on the floor (licked clean, no lettuce, no secret sauce, nothing) was the very same one that previously held my lunch. Then, I realized why the dog looked guilty. And vaguely ill.

Stupid dog ate my Big Mac. I hope she doesn’t vomit on the carpet.