Looking back on my life thus far, I can safely say that my defining moment involved a hamburger. Laugh if you want -- and believe me, everyone does -- but I wholeheartedly believe that something as simple as a small hamburger grilled on a bed of onions and put between two buns with a pickle on top can be the catalyst for a series of events that will change not only myself, but the entire world.

These burgers exist. They are called Slyders. And the restaurant that serves these delicious morsels twenty-four hours a day is called White Castle. Come along with me; I want us to go on a journey to see why this seemingly insane statement rings so true.

As a child, I had a life-altering experience; and like most life-altering experiences, it started with dinner. That night, my mother was not in the mood to cook, as parents are apt to be after being on the phone for an hour with someone who wanted to sue the store for three million dollars because he somehow glued his ass to a toilet seat, and she left for the grocery store to find something quick to eat. She returned with a mysterious blue and white box of frozen hamburgers that said White Castle. My dad explained to his Southern-born sons that they were the Northern version of Krystal--but a whole lot better.

As my mom delicately placed the burgers in the microwave, my dad recounted magical stories from his childhood about White Castle. Each joyful story was better than the last and we were brimming with anticipation as my mom pulled each of those small, savory squares out of the microwave, puffs of steam slowly rising from each burger. This was a new and exciting experience, and it sure wasn't salmon patties or meatloaf so we were all for it. We anxiously fidgeted in our seats until given the signal to dig in.

And man did those burgers suck! They were by far the worst excuses for hamburgers that I had eaten in my young life. They were soggy, had too many onions on them, and had that distinctly yucky taste of food that was not meant to be nuked. I choked down one, but immediately afterward declared that not one more of those pitiful, mushy sandwiches was ever going to touch my lips again. My dad added that the White Castles up North definitely didn't taste like this, though not with the passion of my vow. In the end, we all agreed that we probably should have ordered a pizza instead.

It was here that my relationship with White Castle began. I became convinced that this restaurant my dad had praised so highly could not possibly have food this bad--there was no way they would still be in business. I promised myself that at the first available opportunity I would venture to a White Castle and prove that those disgusting frozen burgers were a freak of nature and that White Castle really did taste good.

Over the next few years, this spark of an idea would ignite a fire inside of me that only a Slyder could extinguish. This flame would be fed by everything around me: the music I listened to, the movies I watched, and the terrible college jobs I suffered through. Signs all around were signaling my destiny.  

And I can always make them smile/From White Castle to the Nile

Anyone familiar with the Beastie Boys now-classic 1986 album Licensed to Ill will notice that they reference White Castle in over half the songs. And if you weren't, now you know. 

These references were not thrown in gratuitously; White Castle was a place they represented--much like their native Brooklyn. Now this may be news to some, but companies don't pay rappers to mention their products in songs. So the Beasties' debut album, which was panned at first because people back then did not want to hear three Jewish kids rapping over heavy metal guitars, could hardly be considered a marketing vessel for a fast-food chain. No, the Beasties just wanted to express their love for White Castle.

And where are the Beastie Boys now? They have sold millions of albums all over the world, are considered musical icons and pioneers of modern rap music, and are active participants in various political causes. And I believe--no, I know--that White Castle is what helped them attain such greatness. Those delicious burgers make men dream big dreams and give them the determination and will to accomplish those dreams. I mean, when recording a platinum-selling album, a guy's gotta eat, right? 

I got a girl in the Castle and one in the pagoda/You know I got rhymes like Abe Vigoda

In 2004, a movie came out that I personally think was deserving of the Oscar. It was brilliant, heart-warming, and the plot was in the title. This cinematic masterpiece was named Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle and from the very first preview I knew in my heart this movie would be life-altering. And it was. I laughed, I cried, I cheered, and after the movie was over I immediately went to Krystal. It may not have been a delicious Slyder but I was determined to eat a miniature burger, dammit.

Finally, a movie that described exactly how I felt. The longing for a burger and the hijinks and shenanigans one must go through to eat that burger. But what makes the movie truly great is its central message: if you want something bad enough, don't let anything stand in your way. And with determination and a little luck, you will succeed. Ebert and Roper got nothing on me.

Maybe that is why I like the movie so much. We all have dreams deferred. We all have a little Harold in us: that guy who is just too scared to go for what he really wants. And maybe sometimes it takes a seemingly simple task like going out for munchies to make you examine your life and decide that you’re not backing down. Not this time.

Or maybe I like it because they rode a cheetah. Yeah, it was probably that.  

We got determination--bass and highs/White Castle fries only come in one size

Around Christmas of my sophomore year of college I made the unfortunate decision of being desperate for a job. The ole' wallet had moths coming out of it and my bank account had so little money that I could not go to an ATM. Your fearless hero looked high and he looked low for work but none was to be found. Alas, what was a broke-as-all-out college student to do? Glad you asked.  

But to tell you this story I have to tell you another story first. When I moved off campus, I went pot-luck (no pun later intended) and got an apartment with three random guys. Two of them, it turns out, were enterprising young lads (potheads) who made the conscious decision to go into business for themselves (sell weed). But I digress.

Anyway, before they decided to enter the field of at-home small business ownership, one of the roommates in question was looking for a straight job. One day a friend of his told us about a local telemarketing company that was hiring. I immediately discarded the idea. I hated telemarketers. I was the person who screwed with telemarketers. There was no way in hell I was going to be a telemarketer.

One week later I was sitting at a desk being interviewed by a chipper young woman who did a good job at convincing me that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be a telemarketer. The pay was good, better than anything else in town, and she assured me that I wouldn't have to call anyone. I was sold. And by sold I mean that my soul was sold to the telemarketing devil with talks of commission and flexible scheduling.

Needless to say, that job was probably one of the worst experiences of my life. It was true, we didn't have to call anyone, but people were transferred to us without their knowledge, so most of the time all they really wanted to know was whether or not their credit cards had been activated.

I felt horrible for being a part of the deception. I said something to my boss one day about it and she looked at me straight in the face and told me that you could get fired for saying stuff like that. 

The commission was also a myth. You got paid hourly or commission--whichever was greater. And all I really have to say about the "flexible scheduling" was that on Saturdays I worked from five in the morning until noon.

I also made the mistake of taking this job over Christmas Break. My roommate (the only one remaining after the drug raid) and everyone else I knew had gone home for the holidays. So there I was, all alone and working a job that I hated more than words can truly describe.

Thanks to that flexible scheduling I was telling you about, I had to work on New Years Day. And man did it suck, though I did learn the fun fact that no one really wants to order wallpaper or a frequent flyer program on a holiday. So in retrospect, I guess it was a learning experience. I learned what hell must be like.

By noon I was slouched over in my swivel chair, really bummed out because I hated my job and feeling even worse because I desperately wanted to burn the building down but didn't have a lighter. For some reason my boss finally had the good graces to put down the whip and give me a break, but only for ten minutes.

I lifted my weary frame from my swivel chair and lumbered down to the break room. I was sure I could find some sort of preservative-filled, yellow-dye enhanced lunch in the vending machines. I opened the door to complete silence except for the humming of the drink machine. Of course there was no one here--everyone else was nursing a hangover from last night. I looked in my wallet and pulled out the last two dollars I had to my name. Whatever I bought had to count because this was it. 

I approached one of the machines and hit the button to rotate the carousel. Microwave bean burrito--definitely not. Tuna salad--I would rather have the colon cannon I was just looking at. Apple--apple? Why in the world would anyone put an apple in here? Things were looking bleak.

Then I saw it, glowing with a heavenly fluorescent light inside the vending machine. Right in front of my hound-dog face was a package containing two White Castle chicken sandwiches with honey-mustard packets. Clouds parted to reveal sweet sunshine and angels sang down from the heavens as a single tear streamed down my cheek. It must have been fated to be because I had just enough money to purchase this blessed food. Since the dawn of time there has never been a person more happy to see microwaveable food.

I know this euphoria is in stark contrast to my feelings about frozen White Castle. Frozen White Castle was the reason I started my odyssey. I will soon spend a section ranting about how inferior frozen White Castle is. But frozen or not, that blue and white logo was the only thing keeping me from losing it. Besides, these weren't hamburgers, they were chicken sandwiches. So there.

Those forty-five seconds it took for the microwave to work its magic were full of Christmas Eve-like anticipation. I tasted the honey-mustard while I waited; it was indeed the nectar of the gods. When the sandwiches finally finished cooking I carefully took them over to the one good table where the legs didn't wobble and I savored both of those little square vessels of happiness for everything they were worth. I experienced true bliss for those brief two minutes and, afterward, felt warmer than I had felt all winter.

Your humble author was floating on air as he went upstairs and sat back down in his swivel chair. My coworkers, noticing my radiant smile, were unable to believe that two vending machine sandwiches could fill a person with that much joy. Nothing could touch me for the rest of the day: not the boss, not the pissed-off callers, not even that script I had to read word-for-word every call (but make sure you make it sound like you!). I tried to explain to them how little things like those sandwiches could completely change my mood but I knew it was useless to try.

The point I'm trying to make is that I was more miserable than I had ever been in my life and all it took was two White Castle sandwiches to make me feel better. And I found it in the strangest of places--a vending machine in an office building in Athens, Georgia. Left of the coffee-maker, right next to the microwave. It was no coincidence; it was meant to be. White Castle was there for me when I needed it the most and because of that, the fire department did not have to be called that day. 

I chill at White Castle 'cause it's the best

I have yet to cross through the hallowed glass doors of the Castle, considered by me to be irony at its cruelest. But the fire inside me has not been extinguished. Nay, it now burns brighter than ever. Some would say I'm obsessed. I would prefer to say that I am pining. I pine for the satisfaction that people in those blessed cities that contain a White Castle feel every time they casually decide to dine there. "I want that feeling," to quote a movie character introduced earlier, "the feeling that comes over a man when he gets exactly what he desires."

I know what some of you, especially those living in the South, are about to say: well, isn't Krystal the same thing as White Castle? No, it's not and how dare you make such a statement! I mean, I'll have the occasional Sackful of Krystals just like the next guy, but it is really nothing more than a weak imitation of White Castle.

Each White Castle patty contains what I call the "five crucial holes." The burgers are also grilled on a bed of onions which, when combined with those crucial holes, allows the onion flavor to meander throughout the burger while cooking both sides at once. Lastly, the whole sandwich is assembled with care and served to you.

Krystal, on the other hand, slaps their flimsy patties on your standard grill before throwing the completed sandwich into a steam bin to finish, a move that they say steams the onion flavor into the patty. I say it just makes their burgers soggy.

But since Krystal is all I have around me, Krystal is what I shall eat. I will dine on my usual five Krystals, three Chiks, two chili-cheese Pups, and fries but I will shed a small tear each time I sit down to this snack. Some say this tear is from my heart screaming, "No more! Please! Eat a salad for crying out loud!" but I believe that tear is from the realization that the burger I hold in each hand is not a Slyder but merely a fake, a pod-burger, if you will. It looks like the original but you know deep down it's not. And that makes me sad.

Dow' with Mike D and it ain't no hassle/Got the ladies of the 80s from here to White Castle

People have also suggested to me that since I am nowhere near a White Castle, and I cry every time I go to Krystal, I should just suck it up and buy the frozen White Castle burgers at the grocery store. Blasphemy, I say! Would you rather buy a frozen pizza or order one hot and fresh from the place down the street? Would you rather drink your favorite beer canned or on draft?

Putting Slyders in the microwave bastardizes the whole cooking experience. There is no steaming of the onion flavor, no five crucial holes. The burgers are merely thrown in a microwave and cooked however a microwave cooks stuff. How does a microwave cook stuff? Nevermind, I'm getting sidetracked. What I do know for certain, though, is that whatever that machine does to make my food hot again, makes White Castle really suck.

See, now you've done gone and made me angry with all this talk about Krystal and frozen Slyders and all other sorts of crazy stuff. Didn't you read the introduction where I railed against frozen White Castle? Now my blood pressure is all elevated--I need to sit down. Give me a minute.

Because being bad news is what we're all about/We went to White Castle and we got thrown out

That’s better. Anyway, after reading what amounts to a very long and very disturbing rant about a place I have never been to, you must be wondering, "How can a human being possibly be this obsessed with a fast-food restaurant?" Well, I don't know and I'll mind you to quit interrupting me.

Asking me why I obsess this much over White Castle is like asking the knights of old why they obsessed so much over the Holy Grail. They had never seen it before and, unlike White Castle, had no proof it even existed.

Trust me, if I could raise an army, invade the impenetrable Castle of White, and claim divine providence in doing so, I would. Then maybe I wouldn't be looked at so funny. One guy on an epic journey to White Castle--yeah, he must be crazy; don't look him directly in the eyes, son. But two people or three people or even a dozen people--man, there must be something to this whole White Castle thing. Godspeed, you brave warriors; bring back many treasures from the Promised Land.

So, in short, the Crusades were about hamburgers and that's why I wrote an extensive essay about White Castle. Hope you were taking notes.  

I drink Brass Monkey and I rock well/I got a Castle in Brooklyn--that's where I dwell

The closest White Castle to me is in Nashville, Tennessee--five hours and nine minutes away--and I seriously consider going there at least once a month. 

It always starts off the same way: I say You know what? I'm kind of craving White Castle right now. But then the idea rolls around in my head and I think You know what? I could leave this afternoon and be there by nightfall. Then it really starts to sound like a good idea and I say You know what? I could swing by and pick up Jonathan. I need a navigator. What follows is a flurry of last minute planning: I check my tire pressure, use GPS to plot the route, and seek funding from the queen. 

But just going to the closest White Castle would not be enough. Nay! To truly succeed in my quest, I have to journey all the way to Brooklyn, New York, and eat at one of the four White Castles contained in that borough. Only by sitting at the very same table that the Beastie Boys sat at all when they dreamed up the masterpiece that would become Licensed To Ill could I say my life is complete. Eating at the Nashville White Castle would only be the beginning of my epic journey for warm Slyder goodness.

That settles it! I will make this journey to the hallowed land like the heroes of old. Who knows, I may be doing it right now. Well not now now. Now I'm writing about going to White Castle so I probably haven't done it yet. Ok, forget that. But rest assured, I will go to White Castle. To get this thing out of my system. To say that I did it. To bring about world peace.

I will pull into the parking lot and see that beautiful, glowing sign calling me home. The violin music will begin playing as I step foot through the door. I will be greeted like Norm from Cheers. Hey, Cole! How ya been? You finally made it, eh? As I float--yes, I will be floating--past the tables toward the counter I will pass the Beastie Boys, sitting in their usual booth, eating Slyders and freestyling. Harold and Kumar will also be there, shoving food in their mouths in celebration of their monumental journey. I'll shoot them a thumbs-up. The gang's all here.

I will have to fight through the tears, but I will compose myself just long enough to order 136 Slyders...and I will plan on eating every last one of them. As I sit down, a banner will drop and confetti will rain down. Pats on the back and huzzahs will come from all. I will slowly lift the first burger to my mouth and a total silence will fall over the crowd. I will stare at it for just a second more and, before chomping down, will say, "My life is complete."

A cheer will erupt from the crowd that would put the New Years Ball dropping in Times Square to shame. I will lay waste to the pyramid of burgers in front of me, eating so fast that you would think I was being timed. With a burger in each hand I will look up and say my final words before collapsing on the table. 

Some will say that I shouted, "Lord, I'm ready. Take me home." Others will claim I was asking for something to drink, since I failed to order a cold beverage to accompany my three trays of food. The official cause of death will be listed as choking due to the three Slyders lodged in my esophagus. Unofficially, everyone will know that I died exactly as I planned--with a smile on my face and White Castle in my gullet. But don't you worry, dear reader, because I will be in a much better place. A place where the burgers are always fresh and the fries still come in only one size.