I recreated a McRib using Army rations

I am basically, how you say, a genius

What’s up, dickholes?

I have an apology to make, and it’s that I haven’t written in a while. Being the greatest food writer in all of history has taken its mental toll on me. An editor once told me that there was no such thing as writer’s block, and maybe there isn’t — but it sure felt like it these past few weeks.

And hello, new signups! Substack mentioned me in their mailer, which is extraordinarily flattering, so now you’re here, reading actual garbage. You have no idea what you’re getting into. Poo poo pee pee poo.

Let’s rock!

(Who says that anymore?)

(Life is meaningless.)

(Poo poo pee pee poo.)

Sometimes, when I can’t think of anything stupid to write about, I have a couple mainstays for inspiration: Toy stores, pet stores, and Unexpected Places to Find Food.

I have eaten so much pet food at this point that I might as well be taking dumps in a litterbox. And right now, Chicago doesn’t really have any big box toy stores since Toys”R”Us died; we have cute boutique toy stores where a single toy costs at least $500 and is only meant to be looked at.

So, my last bet was to run around an Unexpected Place to Find Food, which is why I started my search at Whole Foods.

I haven’t been to a Whole Foods in a long time. It took me one whole second to decide that Whole Foods is a dystopian nightmare. Dear God. The place is ultra shiny, overly colorful, and it smells like incense mashed up with an entire dry spice pantry (mostly turmeric). I prefer my grocery stores to be as depressing as my paycheck, so I immediately left, flailing my arms around and shouting.

I ended up at Army Navy Sales, which was around the corner. It had a lot of rapidly aging white men who were attempting to cosplay in militia gear.

I wandered over to the MRE (aka Meals Ready-to-Eat) section and immediately lost my mind.

One of the meal packs was a Rib-Shaped Barbecue Flavor Pork Patty.

I knew immediately what I had to do.

I, Dannis Ree, had to turn this MRE into an Army McRib.

First of all, I need to tell you: These things aren’t cheap.

One pack cost nearly $15. Holy shit. This is where your subscription money comes in handy because you guys paid for it. But psst — a secret. I bought two packages. Paid subscribers get to see what’s in the other package next week. It’s…weird.

Army MREs don’t look all that large, but they manage to jam-pack a lot of shit in there.

This one comes with bread, peanut butter, blackberry jam, lemon-lime drink mix, coffee, a granola bar, Santa Fe rice and beans (I’m not entirely certain what that means), rib-shaped barbecue flavor pork patty, and barbecue sauce.

I purchased buns, an onion, pickles, and shitty barbecue sauce (before realizing the kit already came with some), since those are the other components in a McDonald’s McRib. I happily bought those at a depressing, dimly lit, local grocery store.

Eat my ass, Whole Foods.

In order to simulate being in the Army, I decided to use the chemical heating bag that is included in every kit.

There are a ton of confusing instructions on this bag.

My favorite instruction is to lean the heater on a “Rock or Something.” Oddly, I do not own any rocks, and the cats squirm too much, so, like a true Army Ranger, I had to improvise. I leaned the packet against the wall.

The package is activated with a very small amount of water, and despite the very large warning saying “DO NOT OVERFILL,” I immediately overfilled it.

I saluted myself in the mirror, loudly proclaiming, “Thank you for your service, soldier,” then gave myself a dishonorable discharge.

Speaking of confusing directions, did you guys know that a McRib box also comes with directions on it?

The fact that “Open to enjoy” is written on the box leads me to believe that someone, somewhere, at one point in time did not open the box to eat the sandwich, and therefore, did not enjoy the McRib.

Whoever you are, you are now my best friend.

The heating package said to wait 10-15 minutes before opening the entree, so naturally, I ignored the instructions and let it sit for 30 minutes while I farted on the couch.

The bottom of the pouch was very hot to the touch, but the rest of the heating pad didn’t activate fully, so I was left with a lukewarm piece of compressed meat. This meat was so dense that it was on the verge of collapsing on itself to create a meat-based black hole. It smelled like dog food.

I have a meat-based black hole.

It also smells like dog food.

Using the store-bought bun, barbecue sauce packet, pickles, and onions, I did a fairly admirable job of recreating the McRib.

I saluted myself in the mirror, loudly proclaiming, “Thank you for your service, soldier,” and reinstated myself into the Army.

The side-by-side comparison was actually pretty good, if you ask me.

Time to cram these bad boys up my ass!

First up: The actual McRib.

The meat in a McRib essentially has no flavor. It has a pallid gray color, much like a corpse. It’s spongy, grainy, and could actually be any obliterated animal re-shaped into the shape it used to be when it was in one piece.

Man, the world is a fucked up place.

Most of the McRib’s flavor is in the absurdly smoky and candy-sweet barbecue sauce.

You really do need raw onions and pickles to get through that sauce. When it comes down to it, though, I don’t mind the McRib that much. I always get at least one every year to remind myself that they’re only okay.

We…we need to talk about this McRib simulation.

Remember how I said that I go to the pet store to get inspiration for my food writing?

I might as well have gone to the pet store, taken a can of dog food, run over it with a steamroller, and reshaped it into a side of ribs. This meat patty honest-to-God tasted like vacuum-sealed wet dog food that someone hit repeatedly with a jackhammer.

What a wonder of modern food technology! Army rations can outlive an entire human being’s life and still be edible. This is meat that can be around for full decades for consumption. We really did do you wrong, Wilbur. You were meant to decompose in peace.

Well, good news is, the barbecue sauce isn’t bad. It’s just dark-looking sweet ketchup. The onions and pickles are the most nutritious part of the entire sandwich.

Davida, recently awoken from a nap, took a bite and said (without having heard my opinion), proclaimed, “It tastes like dog food!” Then, after a long pause, she said, “I’m going to buy some American flag pins to thank soldiers for their service.”

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As usual, please consider being a paid subscriber so I can spend all day doing this type of shit. If you want to catch a little more of me in the wild, I was recently published in Chicago Magazine and Kitchen Toke, both in print, available now.

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Catch me on Twitter and on Instagram, and we’ll find out what those weird Santa Fe rice and beans actually are next week.