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'Tis the season for burgers

Burger. America.
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This time is not for discussing who reigns as the best burger joint (still Five Guys), nor for debates on whether a White Castle slider offers a more ideal size than a monstrosity from Whataburger. Nor is this the place to discuss, ad nauseam, proper grilling techniques. You're already forced to listen to all that five times a week from that one neighbor who cracked open his grill in February, which, by the way, is larger and more expensive than your car, while wearing snow boots and thermal underwear. He's that guy who swears that every food, including ice cream, tastes better off the grill, and from whom, for the sake of your masculinity, you must conceal the fact that you sometimes you choose to broil your steak in an oven.

Forget that guy. We're not here to erect some sort of elitist substructure of burger appreciation wherein we all stand around, nodding seriously, pretending to be experts. As for you, you just know that you happen to enjoy a nice burger every now and then, on a hot summer day.

And why not? Why should it be any more complex than that? Burgers are about simplicity; they're about unity, and expedience, and have-it-your-way, and America, goshdarnit! You can be outside, socializing, drinking your Budweiser and Yeungling, and you just let the grill do its work. You've got your cheap, grocery store ice chests nearby, bedazzled in the colors of patriotism; there's a frisbee and a pigskin being tossed around, and hopefully a body of water close at hand. And here's the beauty: You take a two minute break to meander over to the grill, and grab a fresh burger with melted, processed cheese sealed over it. You clamp it inside a nutritionless, white bread bun, and you take a big bite. The ketchup and ground chuck juice dribbles down over your chin and onto your bathing suit, but it doesn't matter—you'll be sweating and swimming again soon. That's summer and burgers, my friend. That's life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

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