Top 10 things I would punch for a McRib

As a loyal reader of this blog, you are no doubt aware of my love for the McRib.

Well guess what? Just like everything else I love, it has gone away forever.

BUT, if there was a genie or Jesus or whatever that flew down to earth and offered me a McRib and was like, “You can have this McRib, but you’ve gotta punch some shit first,” here are the top ten things I would punch in order to get it.

10. The Statue of Liberty


OK, this isn’t that big of a deal. It’s metal and I probably couldn’t do much damage. I’m sure tons of people punch it every day and nothing happens. But, it is symbolic of all the immigrants or something like that, so, I’m sure someone would get pissed off if I got caught.

9. Optimus Prime


He is the head of the Transformers and is like 50 feet tall, but like Lady Liberty, he’s also made out of metal. But unlike a statue, he can transform into a truck and run me over.

8. Ben Franklin


He invented electricity and glasses. That said, he kinda looks like a pretty big pussy who can’t take a punch, so unless he was holding on to that kite and I got electrocuted, I think this one would go off without a hitch.

7. The Mona Lisa


This is like a super important painting in France. It’s worth a lot of money. I told my friend about my plan to punch stuff to get a McRib and he informed me that it’s probably behind glass and whatnot. If it isn’t, the painting won’t be worth much after I’m done punching it in the face and if it is, then I’ll get glass in my hand. Either way, I will earn my McRib with this one.

6. A baby


Babies are weak and their skulls are made out of goo instead of bones. Bottom line, I would probably kill a baby with one punch. I’m not bragging, just being realistic. On the downside, I would be a murderer. On the plus side, I would have a McRib.

5. Grandma


My family is never going to forgive me for this, but I’ll be in jail anyway for baby murder, so why not go for the gusto, right? The irony of this whole thing is that Grandma always gives me McDonald’s gift certificates so I’ve actually bought a bunch of McRibs on her dime in the past. But guess what? This isn’t the past, this is now and I need a McRib.

4. Chris Elliott


OK, now things are getting serious. When I was a kid, I would watch stupid sitcoms and think, “Oh, I guess this is what comedy is, I guess this is OK.” Then came a little show called, “Get A Life” and a whole new world of possibilities was opened up to me. This guy is my hero and probably the number one reason you are reading this blog today. But like Green Day says (I’m paraphrasing), “Kill your heroes. Or punch them in the face.”

3. My past self at age 5


When I was 5, everything was great. I still had another good 4 or 5 years ahead of me before everything went to shit. Oh sure, I was scared that a bear was going to come into our house and try to eat us, but I had reasoned that he would be too heavy for our 70’s-style suspended wood staircase and if I could just usher my family up the stairs before the bear got us, he would cause the whole thing to collapse and he would be trapped in the basement. So I had it pretty good, but not anymore, because I am coming to punch myself out, possibly causing a rip in the space/time continuum that will cause my arm to become transparent when I play guitar at the big dance.

2. Abraham Lincoln


He freed the slaves and he also had Marfan Syndrome, just like me. This one will be tough, because I know he’s probably prone to dislocating his lenses, like I am. I think one good punch to the noggin could do it. Who knows what he will accomplish if he can’t see too good. No, you’d have to be pretty selfish to take a swing at the Great Emancipator. But this is no ordinary sandwich we’re talking about.

Which leads me to my number one person I would punch in the face to get a McRib:

1. Ronald McDonald


I know what you’re thinking, “You’d punch your Grandma or your 5 year old self before you punched a clown everyone hates anyway?” Well, guess what, genius? Who do you think invented the McRib? That’s right. And when he’s dead from my vicious right hook to his brain, there won’t be anyone around to make any more. So even if the company decides to bring back the McRib, they won’t be able to.

This means I will be the last person on earth to consume a McRib sandwich and that’s gotta be worth something in the history books.

You see, in the end, it’s about more than a delicious pork-like sandwich that’s covered in BBQ sauce and pickles and onions (though I get mine without any of those last two), it’s about my bid for immortality–

You know what? In the movies, whenever someone does something like this, they always get tricked and I bet the trick I’d get played on me is I’d go and punch out all these people and then in the end Jesus would be like, “Aha, I’m not Jesus afterall, I’m the devil! This is just a Jesus costume I bought at the mall for like 20 bucks! Enjoy your McRib – extra pickles and onions, of course!” Then he’d laugh in that maniacal way he always does right before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

Oh sure, I’ll try and take all that crap off, but the flavor will have leaked onto the sauce and it will be ruined.

So, good news! I’m not gonna punch anyone. Unless I am guaranteed a plain McRib. No wait, the lesson is, there’s no way to guarantee that.

So forget it, I am withdrawing my offer.

But please, bring back the McRib anyway. I was just kidding about everyone hating you, bro.



  1. As an alternate for your list in case one of your choices is not available for punching, I would suggest you add in Mayor McCheese at #11. That corrupt, criminal motherfucker has been siphoning McRibs off the production line for years, placing them all in an overseas bank account in the Cayman Islands and allowing their barbecuey flavor to appreciate in value. I’m sure he’d be willing to cut you in on a portion of his illegal McRib ring to avoid getting punched in the bun. He’s a pussy like that.

  2. that’s a good theory, but everyone knows that Italian crime families control waste management and McRib black markets. the mayor is simply a pawn in this whole thing. my guess is that someone “connected” has gotten hold of those pictures of Mayor McCheese and the Fry Guys in a drunken foursome. this, it just so happens, is also my theory behind Grimace and his wife’s “murder/suicide.”


    My uncle works for a special unit of the FBI, and while visiting us on this past Flag Day, he told me a story that I will never forget.

    Ronald McDonald is not who or what he appears to be. Ronald McDonald, A.K.A. “The Red Mick”, is a 3rd in command underboss for the U.S. based Irish Mafia. He is a violent madman capable of unthinkable tradgedy and destruction. The fact that he has a severe “nose candy” problem just adds more fuel to his unpredictable rage (it ain’t makeup that makes that nose red).

    Remember the lovable singing spokesman for McDonalds, Mac Tonite? Yeah, me neither, and you know why? The Red Mick made him deader than my Grandpa’s dick . The way my uncle tells it, The Red Mick caught on to Mac Tonite’s plan to blow off with 9 bricks of Lady White, and 50 kee’s of Booty Juice that he had copped from the lair of the head boss , Uncle O’Grimacey. Mac had stashed the dope, and sung like a canary to the bulls about their whole operation soes he could get off on a drug charge he’d got stuck with earlier that month. After squealing to the Grand jury he was gonna take a powder out of town. You see, Mac had been a good earner in the beginning, but then a girlfriend got him hooked on Lady Caine, and before he knew it, he had moved onto PCP and became a real Black Whack All-Star. Well, he got sloppy and got his hop head jammed up by the bulls. Boy, he had really gummed things up for the worse! Well, one of the bulls must of been turned by Uncle O’Grimacey, because just hours before Mac was to testify in front of the grand jury, they found him in a dumpster 3 blocks away from the courthouse. They found a “larger than usual” crater, right square on the back of his hat holder. The Red Mick’s DNA was found all around the crime scene, but due to the fact that the dumpster was right beind that block’s McDonalds, there was enough reasonable doubt to get him off. But everyone to this day knows it was The Red Mick what done it.

    So please Eric, BE CAREFUL!

    However, I really like your idea about punching babies, and the Statue Or Liberty. But, I think I can improve on them a little bit. Don’t punch a hard metal statue and potentially break your hand, and don’t crush the first baby’s scull you see on the street, take my advice instead.

    If Jesus does show up to grant your wish, go to France, and find an infant descendant of one of the original builders of the statue. Punch that little Frenchie head as hard as you can, and BAM, there you go! Two for one! And don’t worry about getting arrested. Le police won’t bother you. Neither will any citizen. The police will be too busy chasing bread thieves, and the citizens will be too busy being French.

  4. MY top 3 Things I would punch for a Stepdad that won’t call me “Dirt Boy”, and that won’t make my Mom do ‘The Dirty Sanchez’.

    1- My current Stepdad, Roy – At first, dodging all of the flying beer bottles, ashtrays, lamps and plants was sort of exhilerating. All the running and diving even helped me lose 10 pounds! But the free clinic is starting to get suspicious, and I’m running out of excuses. And by “free clinic”, I mean my neighbor Irwin. He’s a Veteranarian Assistant and a part time taxidermist. For payment, he makes me cut out every left pocket in his jeans. He’s pretty creepy, but boy, can he sew!

    2- Billy Ray Cyrus – Thanks to this guy’s sperm creating the pop music stinksation ‘Hannah Montana!’, my used-to-be adorable, intelligent 6 year old niece has turned into some overly sarcastic little diva. Her once stunningly brilliant vocabulary has now been replaced with the catch phrases “Sweet Niblets!” and “Ya’ Think?!!”. Thanks Billy Ray Douchebag!

    OH, and then there’s this. It’s mulletastic!

    You can tell the world you never was my girl
    You can burn my clothes when I’m gone
    Or you can tell your friends just what a fool I’ve been
    And laugh and joke about me on the phone

    You can tell my arms to go back onto the phone
    You can tell my feet to hit the floor
    Or you can tell my lips to tell my fingertips
    They won’t be reaching out for you no mo’

    But don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
    I just don’t think it’d understand
    And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
    He might blow up and kill this man

    You can tell your ma I moved to Arkansas
    Or you can tell your dog to bite my leg
    Or tell your brother Cliff who’s fist can tell my lips
    He never really liked me anyway

    Oh tell your Aunt Louise, tell anything you please
    Myself already knows that I’m okay
    Oh you can tell my eyes to watch out for my mind
    It might be walking out on me today

    But don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
    I just don’t think it’d understand
    And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
    He might blow up and kill this man

    But don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
    I just don’t think it’d understand
    And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
    He might blow up and kill this man

    Don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
    He might blow up and kill this man

    Don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
    He might blow up and kill this man

    3- BEARS! – No, I am not trying to emulate my hero Stephen Colbert. I really do hate bears. They scare the hell out of me. Four of my friends and I were chased down and nearly killed by a Black Bear when we were camping in the Nebo Mountains of Utah. Sure, my friend Jasper (who hadn’t taken any of the mushrooms with us) will tell you that we unnecessarily provoked it by entering it’s cave and killing it’s cub, but don’t listen to him! That bear’s cub used it’s telepathy on us and tried to get us to kill Jasper, and although Jasper can be a downer sometimes, we voted 3 to 1 to get that damn cub instead. And was Jasper grateful? Hell no! What a jerk!

  5. Listen polishsnausage, I vowed never to fight a girl again(I am a man, I think). The first 12 times I did, I got my ass and ego whipped like a S&M enthusiast at a leather &
    whip convention in Amsterdam. Thanks to pilates and anabolic steroids, I did win the last 4 fights, but unfortunatly I killed the last 3. The first 2 deathfights were exhilerating, and their scalps do make a nice addition to my beroom wall, but after the third girls death, her family(the first 2 I killed were homeless) got all like “Bwah Bwah Bwah, our only child is dead and her 7 kids just lost their mother and blah, blah blah”. I was lucky only to serve 3 days in jail.

    So please don’t listen to Eric, because If you do bring it, I will be forced to become taken over by uncontrolable, blind rage and defend my girl-fighting honor. And the inevitable trial could really screw up my plans to go horse riding in Montana this winter.

    And oh yeah, I hate my mother.

  6. Quite the astute observation. I’m not sure of the exact timeline, but I figure the McRib came out about ten years ago… around the last time anybody saw Grimace in a McDonald’s commercial. Once again, I scoop the Drudge Report.

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