Dripping With Sadness: Which Fatty Meals Will Make Me Depressed?

A newly released study coming out of Spain claims that consuming high amounts of fatty foods can lead to depression. The authors of the study spent six years analyzing the diets and life styles of 12,000 volunteers who had all been diagnosed as not suffering any signs of depression. By the end of the six years researchers discovered that all of the subjects with high trans-fat diets “presented up to a 48 percent increase in the risk of depression when they were compared to participants who did not consume these fats.” Out of the original 12,000, 657 were now officially diagnosed with clinical depression.

Hearing this got me to thinking: how would my mental outlook on life be affected after I consumed some high fat fast foods? I’m normally a pretty well-adjusted, happy guy. I’ll I start to feel a little down after consuming some overly greasy and fatty foods?  With that in mind I was off to my local purveyors of fatty food to find an answer to that question.

KFC’s Double Down

The Meal:

The Double Down is the fast food equivalent of Frankenstein’s monster. When you first lay eyes on it you are made instantly aware of the fact that this is a thing that should not be. If there is a God out there floating in the heavens, watching over us, he’s looking at the Double Down and giving some serious consideration to smiting the next asshole that slops that angry fist of grease and sadness in their mouths. People that have literally died and gone to heaven are probably getting a little annoyed with God’s constantly rants of “I give them the gift of life and they use that gift to turn fried chicken in to bread? C’MON!”

How I Felt After Eating It:

As I looked myself over in the mirror just seconds after eating the double down I noticed the greasy glaze glimmering off my lips and cheeks. The way the light caught the grease highlighted the deep, burning need for acceptance within my soul…and how that burning flame would never be extinguished. I, the man that just consumed cheese and bacon sandwiched between two deep fried chicken breasts, am destined to live alone on this spinning rock, constantly consumed by the horrors of my past — the mistakes I’ve made, the relationships I’ve destroyed, the mutated chicken sandwiches I’ve eaten.

Really, the Double Down could act as a parabola for my pathetic, loathsome existence thus far: a series of risky maneuvers that never pan out, mostly due to my arrogance and inability to trust. And buckets of diarrhea.

Outback Steakhouse’s Aussie Cheese Fries with Ranch Dressing

The Meal:

It’s a hellish gangbang of French fires, melted cheese, bacon, and ranch dressing. Looking at the dish is almost like staring in to the inky, soulless eye of a diabetes demon. You know that as soon as you place one fry in your mouth you are essentially selling your soul to a hellspawn that will not take your soul, but rather, will make you think every spoon of ice cream you eat is one spoonful closer to getting a foot chopped off. This demon cares not for souls; it just wants body parts so it can make itself an awesome entertainment room arm chair that’s partially made of you.

How I Felt After Eating It:

After pounding the final soggy fry down my gullet I felt it push my insecurities down deeper in to the very center of my being, deep down in to the black abyss of my consciousness, where no amount of Paxil can reach. The gooey cheese and creamy ranch dressing solidified; hardening in to a protective barrier around the disgust and self-hatred I have for myself, rendering it impenetrable to even the most skilled of psychiatrists or the warmth of a loved one’s embrace. But, then again, what loved ones do I have? I just ate a thing of nasty-ass fries alone at an Outback Steakhouse on a Tuesday night. I have no friends. I have no loved ones. I am alone. It’s just me and an empty plate of fries that I think I might vomit up later.

Even the fries don’t want to be around me for too long.

Denny’s Rascal Flatts Unstoppable Breakfast

The Meal:

Teaming with country music artists Rascal Flatts, Denny’s created a plate of food that could easily be confused for a crime scene in a glue factory. The meal consists of a biscuit topped with a country fried steak that’s slathered in sausage gravy…which is then topped with 2 eggs and bacon…and served with a side of hash browns. If you’re eating this at 4 AM then there’s a good chance you’re going to finish your plate and immediately go on a shooting spree before turning the gun on yourself. The coroner will take one look at the contents of your stomach and release a groan of realization, followed by the words “Oh, now I get it. Hey, guys! I totally get it now! And I kind of see his point.”

How I Felt After Eating It:

As is, the Unstoppable Breakfast is a hodge-podge of pig feed-like regret. It’s a sloppy mash of bread and gravy, and it has grease pouring out of every millimeter of it. So when the waitress asked if I wanted bacon with it, I said yes, because I just knew that with every bite I was bringing myself one bite closer to the welcoming embrace of my casket. Every time I felt the gelatinous savoriness of the gravy mixed in to the cholesterol-laden yolk of the fired egg I realized that my shallow, un-impactful life was coming to a fast approaching end. So I ate more, I ate faster, hoping to drown my painful memories in sausage gravy and suffocate my ennui with fluffy biscuits.

By the time I was scraping the plate of those final mounds of unrecognizable food slop and heaving it in to my mouth, I was already looking forward to resting my head against the comforting grill within my gas oven, slowly dragging in lungfuls of fumes that would pacify me, ease me in to the ultimate slumber.

The waitress was nice, though. I tipped her 20%.

Wendy’s Triple Baconator

The Meal:

Three beef patties, three slices of American cheese, two (or more) slices of bacon per beef patty, and mayonnaise – these are the things that your heart has nightmares about, and these are all the things on the Wendy’s Triple Baconator. The triple Baconator is basically greasy white flag being waved in the face of your own self-respect. Twenty years ago the Baconator was the kind of thing that someone would have only eaten on a dare. Nowadays it’s the kind of thing eaten on during an average lunch break, leading the oblivious eater to wonder why they are slipping into diabetic comas on their office toilets.

How I Felt After Eating It:

My life is three cheese and bacon-topped layers of beefy failure. I once found joy and glimmers of hope in the smile of a young child. Now, after only two bites of triple Baconator, I see the callous heart of a scummy asshole in the making. That child will not grow up to matter; none of us do. We are merely stacks of barely living flesh heaped on to one-another within this sandwich called life – each of us trickling our trans-fatty sorrows on to each other, creating a broth of refuse and revolt that we heaps of meat will inevitably drown in, very much like the Baconator itself.

On the upside, the guy that took my order accidentally gave me an extra dollar with my change.

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