Pickles: I hate them. I don’t know what my deal is. I know everyone else fiends the things. They're clearly a very lovable foodstuff. But I hate them. Every last briny one of them. And I’ve tried to confront this hate! Lord knows I’ve tried. I’ve got a buddy who hates Slurpees. Crazy, right? Slurpees are the best! And that’s what everyone tells him. So he tries one every Summer, just to make sure he didn’t have it all wrong somehow. And he always hates them. Pickles are my Slurpees. Except I never actually run the test, because I know they’re effing terrible. Fast food pickles: the worst. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting in a Burger King, furious that we didn’t go to McDonald’s, because McDonald’s doesn’t casually boobytrap their burgers with surreptitious pickles I clearly didn’t request, MOM. And here's the thing about removing unwanted pickles from burgers: you can’t. Not all the way. By the time you sit down with that burger, it’s already too late. It’s spread. Your only hope is to burrow deep inside the airy, diffusive ductwork of that bun and jackhammer out the affected areas, which turn out to be about 65% of its total mass. Now you have holes in your bun and ketchup is squirting everywhere. What a great dinner this has turned into.