Ranch

I love commercials. I simply can’t help myself. Commercials to me are the true artistic vignettes of modern society – they are one act plays that warn against the danger of feminine itch and the attest to the glory of the flip-top head. Unfortunately, fast food commercials tend to disappoint. You’d think all the money we flabby assed drive-thru types generate would provide enough scratch for them to muster up a legitimate marketing blitz, but that ain’t usually the case.

But on the horizon there is a new flaxen-haired paramour of the lustful chow hound. He is… the Ranch Tooth. Not since Quizno’s unleashed those slack-jawed, zombified hamsters on the airwaves have I been so enamored with a restaurant advertising hook.

I feel for you, simple everyman, as your Ranch Tooth vexes you at every turn. I understand your woe, and your desire for what is essentially a sandwich slathered in dressing. And yet, I envy you. Were it that I too had a comically oversized anthropomorphic molar in a Stetson to whisper Raaaaaaaaaaaaanch to me, why then I too could face this cold, cruel world with head held high and belly full. But no… alas, I have only my beer tooth the keep me company.

In short, the Ranch Tooth beats the hell outta those Burger King commercials where the thrash band in rooster helmets sing about the social revolution afforded by chicken fries.

Ah, who the hell am I kidding? I fully embrace “one kingdom under chicken fries.”