Dancing With The Devil: My Battle With Arby’s Meat Mountain

A while back, if you remember, I told you about the Arby’s Meat Mountain, a sandwich and publicity stunt that took the world by storm. For those who have forgotten, it’s a sandwich that consists of:

2 chicken tenders
1.5 oz. of roast turkey
1.5 oz. of ham
1 slice of swiss cheese
1.5 oz. of corned beef
1.5 oz. brisket
1.5 oz. of angus steak
1 slice of cheddar cheese
1.5 oz. roast beef
3 half-strips of bacon

You can get it all for the low, low price of $10. If you want a calorie count on this bad boy, a Reddit user by the name of The_Motivated_Man clocked the thing in at 1,275 calories. Unofficially.

Naturally, I’ve been curious about this sandwich for some time. I tried to go to an Arby’s and order it, but for the life of me, I couldn’t find an Arby’s. The closest one is, like, 25 minutes from both my office AND my apartment, and from either locations, I’d have to take two subways and a bus to get there. Ain’t nobody got time for that. But today, one was dropped in my lap. I somehow got the opportunity to try the Meat Mountain and I took it, and I wanted to document my experience. I knew I would either conquer the mountain or be taken off of it in a stretcher. Join me on this momentous journey.

First, let’s take a look at this bad boy:


Holy shit. This thing looks both incredible and disgusting–just a monstrosity of meat, meat, more meat, and a little cheese. It doesn’t look that daunting, though, does it? I can do this easily.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. Let’s take the first bite.


First impressions on the taste: you can really barely taste anything specific. It’s just kind of a mish-mosh of flavors that don’t necessarily work together. You really taste the chicken on the bottom, but the ham, corned beef, brisket, and steak really kind of cancel each other out. You taste the smokey barbecue, the salty pork and the chicken, but that’s about it. It’s great, but if you’re expecting a culinary orgy in your mouth, you’re going to be a few flavors short of a bacchanal.

What’s this tingling in my left arm? Maybe it’ll go away with some Horsey Sauce.


Horsey Sauce makes everything delicious. If necessary, I could probably drink this shit. I wish I had some curly fries to help wash this sandwich down. This’ll be easy–I can finish this no problem.

Hmm. My chest kind of hurts. Things are getting a bit fuzzy. The meat is taking away my ability to–what’s the word? Oh, think. Yeah. Hmm. Maybe powering through is the way to go on this. Horsey Sauce, don’t fail me now.



I just don’t feel good. I’m halfway through this sandwich and, no joke, I feel physically ill. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve eaten mass quantities of food before, but never to this extent. No. This is too much meat on one sandwich for one man. This is something that should be split between three people, or maybe just locked away in a crate like the Ark of the Covenant, to be studied by top men. Top…men.

I couldn’t find a crate, so putting it on the floor under my desk will have to do, not only so I can’t eat it, but so my coworkers won’t see me eating it and judge me. Is that an eating disorder? I think it is.


I’m actually embarrassed and sick to my stomach. I just jogged in place next to my desk for 10 minutes to get my blood pumping. Now I’m dizzy. I think I’m just going to close my eyes for five minutes.


Fuck. What time is it? I slept through about eight phone calls and two dozen emails. My boss is pissed and I think I’ve been presumed dead. Everything hurts. I can barely breathe from all this meat. The sandwich is still there, under my desk. Mocking me. Laughing at me. Insulting my manhood and asking for my sister’s phone number. You son of a bitch, I’ll kill you.


That’s it, you meaty bastard. You have nothing left. You’re missing seven eighths of your body, some of your precious meats are completely gone, and all you have left is a pathetic remnant of what you once were. You’ve gone from a Meat Mountain to a Meat Molehill and I’m going to conquer you, you delicious, heartless son of a bitch. In the words of Mortal Kombat’s Scorpion…


It is done. People of Earth, you are free! The Meat Mountain is no more. All that remains is a remnant of what it used to be: an empty cardboard box on a plate. I’m currently blind in one eye, I can only taste salt, and my cardiologist might murder me in his office with his bare hands when I go in for my post-Thanksgiving physical.

Am I a mental patient? Maybe. Am I going to have to bust out the grumpiest of grumpies in a few minutes? Absolutely. It won’t be pretty, and I’ll spare you the pictures because of common decency.

But am I a man? You bet your sweet fucking ass I am. I will be enshrined in Fast Food Valhalla for the rest of my days.


Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a toilet calling my name. Put on a pot of coffee–this could take a while.

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