Last week my wife, our daughter, the dog and I took a trip to the ocean. We spent a week in and around Willis Wharf, Virginia, a small town on the coast near Chesapeake Bay.

We left Cleveland bright and early Monday morning. By the time we got into Maryland we started seeing billboards advertising the McDonald's Crabcake Sandwich. My wife is a seafood lover, and I will admit a crabcake can be good, if prepared correctly.

All the way down the East Coast we kept seeing the crabcake sandwich billboards.

A solid brownish lump? Going in, maybe.

I teased my wife that she had to get one -- hell, you can't buy those at McDonald's in Ohio. Plus, my wife had been studying the McDonaldization of society in college last semester, so she thought it would be funny to tell her professor about the sandwich.

Well, we arrived at our destination and forgot all about the crabcake and McDonald's.

Upon our departure north on Route 13, we started seeing those darn billboards again. But it was early and McDonald's doesn't start serving lunch until 10:30. Finally, around 10:40 AM, we found ourselves pulling into a McDonald's near Seaford, Delaware. We spent twenty minutes inside, using the restrooms, waiting in line, and dealing with incompetent, minimum wage earning employees. We couldn't believe that a crabcake sandwich costs $4.99! As a value meal, it is $6.99.

Our daughter got the chicken nuggets, I got a double cheeseburger, the wife got her crabcake, and we got back on the road.

As the wife was eating the sandwich, she said it was okay. We continued on into Maryland, through the outskirts of Baltimore. As the hours wore on, my wife kept complaining that the crabcake sandwich was "coming back" on her -- and it didn't taste too good.

It was early afternoon when we finally hit I-70 and my wife got a sudden urge to shit. She can't hold it for hours on end like I can. So we pulled off the freeway and found a little gas station in some hick town, but it was the old-fashioned type where they actually work on cars. The wife declined, and we got back on the interstate. We found a gas station a few exits later; this time, the wife expelled the now-liquid crabcake sandwich.

She later told me that as she was squirting out the contents of her colon people were knocking on the door, wanting to get in. By the time she finished and walked out, three women were in line and my wife laughed, knowing that these annoying bitches had to endure her awful crab (meat?) gas.

She got back into the truck and said she wasn't feeling too good. I got back on the interstate only to have the wife tell me to find another gas station. Not wanting chocolate fish surprise in my truck, I sped to the next exit. At this stop, I filled my truck's tank as my wife emptied hers.

The final blast of the crabcake sandwich squeezed out of the wife's bung about an hour later; and then all was fine.

If you're ever down south, don't forget to try a McDonald's Crabcake Sandwich.