This just made me laugh. That is all.

Are you Ottawa Valley material?

A friend of mine told me the other day he was considering moving to the Ottawa Valley and becoming a "Valley lad" in the process.
He's not a Valley lad. He's a city boy. There's a difference.
He's trying to convert, but he has no idea what that entails.
So he inspired me to put together this quiz sheet to give folks a flavour for the skill set it takes to be considered a Valley person.
Take the quiz and see if you are Ottawa Valley material.

You may be surprised - and you may need to turn in your membership card.

City folk be warned

Sometimes fewer words are better, so we'll let this sign speak for itself.

Bacon. A love story.

There are few things in this messed-up world that you can count on to make things better.
Actually, we can narrow that list to one: bacon.
Yup. Bacon makes everything better.
Me: "I'll have a cheeseburger."
Waitress: "Would you like bacon on that, sir?"
See what I mean? Say it. Bacon cheeseburger. Ohhh man.
Another example:
My better half: "My mother is coming for a visit."
Me: "Dammit!"
My better half: "She's bringing bacon."
Me: "When do I pick her up?"
Bacon even makes mother-in-laws tolerable.

But the world is actually going hog-wild for bacon. There are very few places you can go today without finding something bacon related.
After a quick online search, it's easy to see that bacon ain't just for breakfast anymore.
In fact - if you play your cards right and follow the pics below, you can woo a bacon-lovin' woman and be makin' your own bacon with her in no time.
Good luck!





You can't go out with your breath smelling like spearmint if you hope to find a mate.

And we all know flossing is more important than brushing.

Just in case brushing and flossing aren't enough.

Still with hygiene. Make sure to scrub behind your ears. Women hate smelly ears.

Just in case you cut yourself shaving.

And throw this in your pocket just in case you get a little action.

Can't just smell good, you need to look good too. Accessories. Women notice these.

And every person who knows fashion knows belt matches wallet.

And ideally, watch matches belt and wallet. Don't tell me you didn't  know that.

And belt, watch and wallet must match shoes.

Ideally, your socks match your shoes.

And never show up for a date empty handed.

Bacon flowers alone don't cut it. Women love chocolate too.

 

Better consider some candles in case she comes back to your place. Always set the mood.

Keep some of this in the bathroom. Just in case you need to freshen things up.

If you and your date decide to stay in, you can make burgers with bacon in a bottle.

Or perhaps she'd just like a delicious bacon sandwich.

Don't forget the Baconnaise. Hell no. Make sure you put the Baconnaise on the table.

And the salt. Can't have a bacon sandwich without extra bacon salt.

And don't forget the beverages. No calories in Diet Coke. Calorie-free bacon. Mmmmm.

Or maybe she wants something that packs more of a wallop. A bacon-flavoured wallop.

If she drinks enough bacon vodka, she'll be Footloose enough to start picturing you as a piece of Bacon.

Chicka chicka bow bow. No need to say anything else, dim the lights and get busy.

Too much bacon vodka. You should have wrapped your little pork sausage in bacon.

Now look what you're buying at the grocery store, Romeo.

Next thing you know, your grandkids are in school and posing for Picture Day. Time flies. But you still have bacon.

BUT EVENTUALLY, A LIFETIME OF EATING BACON CATCHES UP TO YOU.
MAY YOU FOREVER REST IN PIECE (OF BACON).
AMEN, BROTHER. AMEN.

 

WTF is that? Put a bend in that ball cap brim.

If I managed a business, I'd have this sign over the entrance.

As folks from the Valley grow older, one thing becomes clear - they don't mess around when it comes to getting to the point.
So now that I'm closer to 50 than I am to 30, I won't waste your time stickhandling around the issue.
In all my bluntness of rapidly approaching middle age, here it is:
I don't care if you're a rapper from the West Coast, a Cy Young Award-winning pitcher, a Bieber or some kid hanging out at the Bayshore mall trying to disguise the fact you're a candyass.
You simply don't wear a ball cap with a flat peak.
And for the love of all that is holy, don't even get me started about wearing a flat-peaked cap that it turned on an angle. Add a price sticker on the brim and I almost blow a blood vessel in my eye.
This little tirade was triggered by a kid I passed on the street corner the other day. The crack of his arse was hanging out of his pants and he was sporting a ball cap twisted to the side with a peak that was "flatter than piss on a plate" - as the old Valley guys would tell you.
What was more disgusting - seeing his arse or the ball cap? Both were equally revolting.
I just cringed and worked the perfect crease in my ball cap a little bit more. But what I quietly wanted to do was kick him so hard in the arse that his belt line would land somewhere around his waist and his cap peak would bend to the shape of the top of my boot.
I was young once too - but my fashion faux pas in the 80s was stone-washed jeans, skinny leather ties, Cougar boots with the red lining, untied high-top white sneakers with the tongues hanging out and shorts in the style of Jack Tripper. But never, ever, ever did I desecrate the ball cap.
So as a Valley guy who is sporting a few more gray whiskers than I used to, I'm arriving at a point where I don't have time to waste keeping my opinions to myself.
In fact, I feel so strongly about the ball cap brim issue, that I need to point out that some of the best athletes at the 2012 Summer Olympics in London were sporting ball caps with perfectly bent peaks. I've included a photo for proof. As you can see, the beach volleyball player on the other side of the net has a perfect bend in her cap.
As I said at the beginning, no sense wasting time. Just get to the point and let the world know what's on your mind.


Note the perfectly bent peak in the volleyball player's cap.



50 cents? I call BS!

Valley folks have many admirable qualities - loyalty, devotion, reliability, perseverance, trustworthiness, and dependability among them. However, one trait stands above the rest - no tolerance for bullshit.
We're proud of our internal BS detectors. We can weed out the BSers around us. And when we feel we've been wronged, we have no problem tellin' it like it is.
And it doesn't have to be something done to us personally - we will join a cause if we feel something isn't fair or just. And timelines mean nothing.
You can talk to a farmer at the hardware store tomorrow, and you'll mention the hockey playoffs between Arnprior and Renfrew. And trust me, he'll have no problem letting you know where he stands. "That call in the 1981 semifinals was NOT penalty. The Renfrew guy took a dive. That ref, what a sumovabitch."
So, to recap: We Valley folks can pinpoint BS and we'll tell you about it, whether you want to hear it or not. Even years after it happened.
Why the detailed explanation?
To prove to you that it's in the genes. The following rant is not the ramblings of a drunken blogger. (Sidenote: Valley folks also have a high tolerance for alcohol - so the four shots of Crown Royal I had with breakfast are having no impact whatsoever on the following rant)

My rage stems froms something that apparently happened almost five years ago. But I just found out yesterday. And it's my blog. So buckle up.
Am I the only person in the free world who didn't realize that it costs 50 cents to make a local phone call at a phone booth? OK, let's back track a sec - am I the only person who has actually USED a pay phone in the last five years?
I was in Ottawa. My cell phone was at home. Needed to make a call. Let's just say it's easier to find an honest politician in our nation's capital than it is to find a phone booth.
Eventually I found one. The phone. Not the politician.
Bathed the receiver in hand sanitzer. Dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed the number. On the other end was a computerized voice asking for another 25 cents. Now this was a local call, not me calling 1-976-HOT-MAMA (which is $6.99/minute by the way, and they do accept most major credit cards).
Fifty-frickin-cents for a phone call? WTF?
Adding to my rage? Who carries that kind of cash in today's world of Interac?
So I didn't even have the other 25 cents. But, alas, a life saver. You could use your credit card. Pop it in the slot. The fun part? The call then jumps to a dollar. Holy buck!
Has the world gone mad?
When I was a kid, pay phones had three coin slots - a nickel, a dime and a quarter. A nickel for a local call, the dime slot simply ate your coin, and you popped in a quarter if you were making a prank call to someone in Ireland.
And the real joy was checking the coin-return slot.
But yesterday was without joy. After rummaging through the ashtray in my car and finding a nickel in the sewer, I scrounged together another 25 cents - so, like an idiot, I caved in and paid the 50 cents. And the person wasn't even at their desk. Got the answering machine and lost my money.
Tried the coin slot and found a chewed piece of gum. And it smelled like watermelon. And I hate watermelon. Whatever happened to Juicy Fruit? This further proves the world has gone made.
So all told, the call cost me 50 cents. I spent about two bucks on hand sanitizer to bathe the receiver and wash up after touching the gum. Kick in about $14 in gas driving around Ottawa looking for a pay phone. And you can't put a price on rage. Oh, the rage.
And a quick Google shows that the phone conpanies jumped the price to 50 cents in June of 2007. But, as noted at the top of this posting, there is no statute of limitations to Valley venting.
And a further peek at the Google find shows that prior to 2007, the last time the price jumped at pay phones was 1981.
Ahhh, 1981. The year that Renfrew player took a dive. That ref. What a sumuvabitch.

There's snow way we'd get a day off

I flip on the computer at 5:30 this morning, and what do I see? Well, honestly, a scantily clad Jennifer Aniston.

What I find 20 minutes later is a flurry of activity about school buses being cancelled.

Buses were cancelled and a single snowflake had yet to hit the ground. Pre-emptive cancellations. A threat of a snowstorm. In the afternoon.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm all about safety. After all, a school bus full of kids could hit a snow drift and topple over. That concerns me - I could scald myself with my cafe mocha should I need to swerve to avoid injured children on the road.

But at some point over the past 25 years, the people making the call on the what constitutes a "snow day" have become wimpified. Candyassified, if you will.

Like every Valley person of my generation, snow days were few and far between. The school board members were tough as nails. Parents equally hard-assed. And the bus drivers - hardcore every step of the way. And they all worked together to get us kids to school each and every day.

When it was snowing, every kid in the neighbourhood would have an ear glued to the radio in the morning. Would today be the day the buses weren't running? Hell, no. It never happened.

We were bundled up in our snowsuits and Cougar boots (yes, the tan-coloured ones with the red velvety lining) and handed a shovel so we could tunnel our way out the front door and down the driveway. If you think that was cruel, we were also handed a lunch bag with a mock chicken loaf sandwich. I told you the Valley parents were hard-assed.

Snow banks would be to the top of the hydro poles, polar bears would be roaming the neighbourhood and we would hold a glimmer of hope we'd be given the day off. Then you'd hear the heart-breaking roar of the school bus. Nothing would stop that guy. Fueled by 11 gallons of coffee and four pounds of mock chicken, he resembled Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Only he wasn't sporting an axe, but, rather, he was behind the wheel of a souped-up monster truck school bus.

Arriving late was not an option - and we were expected to do our part to make it happen. If we did slip off the road, he'd recruit kids to help him get the bus back on the road. Not the older kids. Or the stronger kids. But the kids wearing corduroy, because if thrown under the rear tire, they provided the best traction.

I told you, we now live in a society of wimps.

Yes, folks, it will snow. We live in the Ottawa Valley - grab your toque, your shovel, your corduroy pants, your mock chicken and get those kids to the bus stop.

McHappy memories of trips to the city

Last week a guy in Wisconsin gobbled down a Big Mac.

No biggie, Mac. We've all done it.

But this guy has done it 25,000 times. Yup. 25,000 Big Macs and counting.

Apparently he's skinny. In good shape. Cholesterol is low. Clean bill of health.

I'm not skinny. Round is my shape. Cholesterol numbers unavailable (my doctor had a stroke when he read them, so I've never seen the test results). And I eat vegetables. Even the gross ones. Honey, toss that skinless chicken breast in the garbage, we're dining at Mickey D's tonight.

And doctors went on the record at the time of the record-breaking burger saying they don't recommend this type of diet.

McDuh.

Honestly, I couldn't care less about this guy ingesting two Big Macs every day. That's what he does. And what does he get for it? The McDonald's in his hometown put up a sign under the Golden Arches that read, "Congrats Don Gorske 25000 Big Macs."

Wow.

Now that's something for committing your life to this multi-million dollar company to the point where your doctor draws blood out of your arm, and comes up with a vial of Special Sauce.

But it is what it is.

I'm not going to lie. I love Big Macs. Have no problem eating them cold for breakfast. In fact, I like to do that.

And this obsession with cold Big Macs began in elementary school in the late 1970s. In Arnprior and Renfrew, there were no McDonald's to be found. So, when you went on a school trip to Ottawa (as opposed to the only two school trips taken further into the Valley - the Bonnechere Caves and the ever-exciting Petawawa Forestry Station), you couldn't care less about visiting the museums. But a road trip to the city was exciting for one reason: there were McDonald's restaurants in the city.

So whenever I came home with a permission slip for a school trip to Ottawa, my brother was in my face waving a $20-bill ... wanting an armload of Big Macs. I was the only kid on the museum-bound bus with a full-size Igloo cooler. After all, a Big Mac didn't cost close to 5 bucks like it does today, so $20 went a long way.

And remember those funky old styrofoam containers from back in the day?

So when I came home with a wheelbarrow full of Big Macs, some obviously went into the fridge.

And under the shroud of darkness, I would sneak into the fridge and scarf down as many cold Big Macs as I could before brothers or sister woke up.

And the sad part was, when we were quizzed by the teacher the next day about the trip to the museum, I was lost.

Teacher: What did the native Canadians eat while on their long canoe voyages?

My answer: Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions all on a sesame seed bun.

(That's easy for me to say ... check out this old 1970s commercial)

Try to stop singing this - I dare you!

Sometimes in this world, few words are needed.
Such is the case when it comes to this video.
A true classic.
Bugs Bunny and a fiddle. Does it get any better than that?
Just try and get the tune out of your head.
For the past hour I've been singing "Grab a fence post hold it tight, whomp your partner with all your might ..."
If this doesn't make you smile, get yourself to a doctor, ASAP.
And yes, when you walk in, feel free to say - "What's up, Doc?"

Comfort and lack of style

Have you ever driven in a car that is so comfortable that you feel like you're sitting in your favourite chair in your living room?

If so, then you probably took a test drive in Chevy mini-van.

Most likely the modified version where some idiot removed the front passenger seat and replaced it with a rocker-recliner.

Like any good Valley boy, I tell you no lies.

The OPP sent out a press release this week about seat belts and how important it is to buckle up. In that release, they refer to this clown from Wendover (near Prescott and Russell - NOT in the Ottawa Valley. Repeat: NOT in the Valley) who plucked the seat out of a van and threw in this recliner.

According to the OPP, this isn't such a good idea. Something about it not being bolted to the floor of the vehicle. Could get killed if you crash. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Two things burn me about this:

1) If you're going to put in a recliner, think comfort. That chair looks like he found it in a ditch somewhere. Probably thrown out when my granny cleaned out her living room circa 1978 and removed all chairs that had the type of upholstery (refer to: "wool" in your dictionary) that caused severe itchiness and reeked of Peter Jackson cigarettes and mothballs.

2) Any intelligent person knows that a recliner needs to recline. There's simply no room to put your feet up in that van. Sheesh. Some people are so stupid.

No beer at the fish shack? WTF?

Tell me! Who said we can't drink? Tell me!

The OPP sent out a press release this week to those who have fish shacks (aka ice shacks).

In a nutshell, the release says: drinking booze at a shack is illegal. It's not your home. You don't have a permit to drink there. So it's a no-no. And they'll be watching for those who are tipping back anything other than pop, coffee or lake water.

Do the cops have nothing better to do that send out crap like this?

What a waste of time.

It's enough to drive a man to drink.

Of course, anyone who has spent time at a fish shack knows you don't go there to drink beer. Or whiskey. Or rum. Or vodka. Or Caesars that were mixed in an old Igloo cooler that sits on the top bunk.

Of course not. It's the last thing you think of doing at the fish shack.

I remember racing out to the shacks on White Lake back in the day, on a Friday night in January, so we could all sit around playing bridge, snacking on little crustless cucumber sandwiches and brewing a pot of chamomile tea.

Come on. No drinking at the fish shack? WTF?

At the colony of shacks on White Lake, one guy didn't even cut a hole in the floor of his shack. It wasn't built for fishing. It was built for drinking. Getting away from all the crap and hoisting back beverages all weekend.

Now the cops are saying it's a no-no.

Then a follow up report in the Ottawa Sun says the release is confusing people who thought it was legal to drink in your shack. And I was one of them.

Drinking and driving - not cool. Drinking and snowmobiling - not cool. Being able to park your vehicle, sit in the shack and have a few cocktails and spend the night (or get a lift home with a DD) - very cool.

Put the energy into the RIDE programs and getting drunks off the road, the snowmobile trails and the water.

Cops should be fishing for drunk drivers, not driving fishermen to drink.

Photo at right: Now that's a fish shack where the owners may have a beer or two.

Good morning class.Welcome back to Learning to Speak Valley 101. In today's class you'll learn words and phrases that will be vitally important if you are to understand what in the hell that Valley guy or gal is talking about.

This special class is geared towards Valley folks and how they describe a weekend of "celebrating" in a way that includes alcohol.

In other words - today's class will help you to learn just how much "celebrating" someone enjoyed by the way they describe their weekend.

You can learn to tell if it was a tame, wild or (not-so) memorable party.

Here's how you can tell:

Tame Weekend

If someone tells you they:

• Enjoyed some cocktails
• Tipped back a few pints
• Downed a beverage or two
• Scarfed down a few barley sandwiches
• Emptied a few brown bottles

Example: "We were at a family barbecue and it was pretty low key - the wife enjoyed a few cocktails and I tipped back a few pints. Then we played euchre with the in-laws. Just sitting with the mother-in-law made me want to empty a few more brown bottles, but I didn't."

VERDICT: Tame weekend (with sympathy to the poor SOB)

Wild Weekend

If someone tells you they were:

• Hammered
• Boiled
• Shnockered
• Pickled
• Loaded
• Three sheets to the wind (if they're in their 50s or older)
• Lit up
• Blistered
• Tanked
• Ripped to the t*ts
• Sloshed
• Inebriated
• Pie-eyed
• Bent out of shape
• Soused
• Liquored up
• Well lubricated
• Smashed
• Totally stoopid
• Smashed
• Mashed
• Plastered
• Bombed
• Buggered up
• Comatosed
• Twisted
• Wrecked
• Messed up
• S**t-faced
• Feelin' no pain
• Destroyed
• Hugging the porcelain

Example: "I had a couple of pints and when I started feelin' no pain, out came the shooter menu. An hour later I was well lubricated and decided it was time for the whisky. Next thing you know, I was shnockered and feelin' totally stoopid. By 3 a.m., I was hugging the porcelain and, man, did that cold toilet bowl ever feel nice against my face."

VERDICT: A wild night. No doubt he remembered the beer and the shooter menu coming out. But his spouse won't let him forget the rest of the night, including the bits he left out about stripping down to his shorts and flexing while standing on a barstool. She'll keep reminding him. For a long time. A loooooong time.

ONE FOR THE AGES

It was simply an epic weekend if someone tells you they:

• Will pay you back every dime you spent on bail
• Aren't 100% sure, but think they got married
• Wonder if you could help them read what their new tattoo says
• Hope you could tell them where they left their pants
• Are pretty sure they had two eyebrows when the weekend began
• Really hope you can drive their new friend Kandi Kane (as in: "Gentlemen, put your hands together for the lovely Kandi Kane") home as you seem to have misplaced your car and are reluctant to ask your girlfriend
• Feel as brain-dead and clueless as a Maple Leafs fan

Example: "Man, what day is it?"

VERDICT: Run to the computer and type your name on YouTube to see what you did last weekend.

(Disclaimer: We are no way endorsing drinking to excess. Trust me, you don't want to end up as brain-dead and clueless as a Maple Leafs fan)

Waging war on the earwig army

Attention all earwigs who regularly read this blog: beware. I am declaring war on you and all of your freakin' relatives.

Yup, you read it here first.

The war has begun for the liberation of Marshall-land.

It's not going to be pretty. In fact, it's going to get ugly. But I will be victorious.

And children will read about this bloody battle in their history books, and look at this as a turning point in world events - the day that man proved he was smarter than insect.

For the past few weeks, an army of earwigs has desceneded on my house. They occupy my dishcloth. They have set up camp near my garbage can. They use my kitchen sink as an exercise area. They have claimed any bag of chips or loaf of bread that sits open on my countertops.

And I am not alone.

After an exhaustive campaign to find out if anyone else in the neighbourhood has been invaded, I realize this earwig blitz is not limited to my place. Actually, I only emailed one person - but in the recent heat, even typing was exhausting. But this person also has earwigs running around his house.

But not for long.

I have had it with earwigs scurrying across my kitchen floor. I need to take it up a level.

I have Googled. I have drawn up a blueprint for war.

What exactly will I do? I'm starting off old school: stomping, squishing and squashing. But I will be relentless.

I have won the battle with ladybugs. I have taken out the flies. Now the earwigs are in my crosshairs.

If you have any other ideas on how to get rid of this little bastards, just let me know.

Forward ... march!

Want some wild weed? Come to the Valley

There's a new strain of weed in the Valley - it can grow more than 20 feet high and the leaves can be up to five feet in width.

Now, before you pack up your VW bus and head for Renfrew County, keep this in mind: this stuff can mess you up.

Giant hogweed has been confirmed in Laurentian Valley Township (near Pembroke and Petawawa) and this is nasty stuff.

If the sap from this bad-boy comes in contact with damp skin (perspiration will suffice) and the skin is exposed to sunlight, severe burns, blistering and painful sores may result. Now that's not good.

It's ugly - it can do damage - and it's tough to get rid of. Not good if you're speaking about your prom date, or a gigantic weed growing in the ditches of the Ottawa Valley.

For a more in-depth peek at this weed, check out this story from the Renfrew Mercury and http://www.yourottawaregion.com/.


These guys go "hog" wild for weed, but not the kind you'll find in the Valley.

Doing anything to stay cool

When you're smack-dab in the middle of a stinkin' hot heat wave, it's not that difficult to spot people who don't have air conditioning.

Hair matted to the forehead, pit stains down to the waist, and subtle comments such as: "holy shart, it's so f**king hot and I don't have a f**ing air conditioner ..." are pretty clear indicators that someone is in need of an A/C fix.

In the Valley this week, the temperatures have hit a stupid 35C during the day, and dropped to an insane 25C at night. And this has been going on for four days - with no relief in sight for another few days.

But alas, this is Canada. It gets cold in the winter. Hot in the summer.

Not having an air conditioner for the summer is like not having a snow shovel for the winter. You can survive without one, but why in the hell would you want to?

But the worst part about sticky weather is trying to get some sleep at night when your house feels like the inside of an oven. You toss. You turn. You contemplate sneaking over to the neighbour's yard and stealing the air conditioner out of his window. You literally feel like you're going insane as your little oscillating fan moves disgustingly hot air around the room.

The only thing that remotely compares is sitting in traffic, window down in your car, and cursing to yourself that you should have bought a car with A/C.

Correct that: it's worse if you're sitting in traffic, wishing you had A/C and watching someone pull up beside you and the windows of the car are covered with frost. You know his A/C has 3 settings: cool, maxium and Arctic. That bastard.

So here are a couple of pics of folks who, despite not buying a vehicle with A/C, have creatively improvised.

The heat makes you do crazy things.

But I admit, they do look kinda cool.

Shakin' good times in the Valley

The ground shook.
My legs were wobbly.
The world was spinning.
OK, that was the morning after my season-ending ball party.
But it was a similar feeling this afternoon as an earthquake hit the Ottawa Valley.
About every 20 years a rumble passes through the Valley that measures on the Richter scale.
Mostly, it irritates Valley folk because it spooks the livestock and your pets, and makes your beer go foamy.
This quake shook for a good 20 or 30 seconds - and it was actually pretty cool to be a part of it.
No one was hurt. No major damage. No foamy beer (I was at work - no beer for me. And FYI: scotch doesn't froth up when shaken.)
Other parts of the world live in danger of quakes destroying their lives on a regular basis.
Here, having something give us a little shake, rattle and roll every couple of decades isn't a bad thing.
And hopefully in the next week or two I'll be able to coax my beagle out from under the bed.

If you want to see a Google map of the epicenter of the quake, click here.




PHOTO AT RIGHT: After the quake, the street in front of my house looks nothing like this one.

Looking for the Valley's biggest burger

It's not too often I go to a BBQ where I'm full after one burger - but if you were to put one of these bad boys on my paper plate (that would require the pricy Royal Chinet plates, not the cheapy-doo dollar store variety that I normally buy), I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to finish my potato salad or my dessert.

This 590-lb beauty (including all the trimmings) was cooked by BBQ nut Ted Reader in Toronto as he took a shot at a Guinness World Record. Though it hasn't officially been deemed a record at this point, the Burgersaurus was made with 300 lbs of beef, and that's almost four times the current record holder. Soon it will be on the pages of Guinness.

It took more than eight hours to cook on a special slow-cooking BBQ.

It makes the current world record holder look like a two-bite brownie in comparison. This sad excuse for a burger (shown below) weighs in at a laughable 78.5 lbs. Pathetic.

If you know of a place in the Valley that serves big burgers (not necessarily the size of these monsters) drop a comment below. Preferably one of those places where if you eat the entire thing and live, you get a T-shirt, a jar of Rolaids and a free meal.

Looking for the biggest burgers in the Valley!