I ate the McDonald’s McRib so you don’t have to. And when I say you don’t have to, I am strongly cautioning against the consumption of the monstrosity. However, with all the hype surrounding it, due to its limited-time availability, I had to give it a try. I went to the drive-through of my local McDonald’s, ordered a McRib, and began to eat it while I drove home. 

This decision was a grave mistake. When I opened the box, the sheer amount of sickeningly fragrant “barbecue” sauce was daunting. I could tell that eating it would be a messy ordeal. Nonetheless, I decided to face my fears, picking up the sopping wet sponge of a sandwich. The universe’s punishment for my indulgence of such an unnatural product came quickly, with sauce dripping on my favorite sweatshirt. The half-blood, half-fecal color of the sauce stood out against the light grey garment. 

I tried not to let this transgression stand in my way of a fair review on the flavor of the sandwich. I took a bite, and the homogenous texture was immediately off-putting. The consistency of the bread and the meat patty blended together like two soggy waffles. The only thing standing in the way of this mushiness’ monopoly of the McRib was the measly topping of slightly crunchy lettuce. It was better than nothing, but certainly not sufficient to save the consistency of the sandwich. 

The only flavor of the McRib is the sauce, which is like a mixture of Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup and canned tomato sauce. Not ideal. They may as well have just put the sauce on a piece of bread, for the pork patty’s lack of flavor and dimension. The patty itself is not as acrid as expected, and I could somewhat recognize a semblance of pork flavor, though not nearly enough to call it pork. 

The McRib is not quite gross enough to warrant a try out of intrigue, but also not remotely enjoyable. In a word, it is unfortunate. It is time that we stop falling for the marketing mirage of scarcity. Just because the McRib will only be available for a limited time does not mean that you have to try it. This marketing tactic to sell a soggy rag of sorts may be even more criminal than Supreme selling a brick for 30 dollars. Although I sold my dignity, integrity, and ruined my best sweatshirt upon purchase of the McRib, you don’t have to. Rise up. Don’t eat it, because it isn’t any good.