When I lived in Chicago, Dave and I, after tossing back a few at the redline tap, would stop by McDonald's for dub-dubs (double cheeseburgers) on the way back to my place. There's something particularly nice about food in the stomach late at night after a few beers. All the questions you recently raised find their resolution in a hamburger and, satiated in body and soul, you can return home to rest. This is why I'm worried about my friends in smalltown, Canada. In a place where McDonald's in no longer faithful and a taqueria a far-fetched dream, you must turn to more dubious means of sustenance. Behind the counter, abutting the spicy potato chips, and partially shielding the Crown Royal, is a jar filled with vinegar and several dirty-white orbs, suspended in solution. You guessed it: the pickled egg. While locals seem not to hesitate, I have yet to discover how many beers into the night it would take to convince me to eat one of these things. To all those pickled egg eaters out there: my condolences in your unknown sorrow.