Going to McDonald’s
By Stephen Philip Druce
The giant yellow “M” sign at McDonald’s has drawn me in.
I’m willing to disregard the prevailing rumor that the burgers are primarily composed of cow asshole and that the restaurant representative is Ronald McDonald the demented clown, so I’m going into McDonald’s.
I’m prepared to let my good reputation slide for a third-rate eating house because I’m lazy, trashy, cheap, and completely shameless. Why should I dine in a fancy restaurant when I can experience the gentle ambiance and warm family atmosphere at McDonald’s: a platoon of screaming brats throwing food around, accompanied by tattooed obese parents gorging on cow asshole like farm animals at the trough.
I’ll overlook the fact that consuming all this sugar, salt, and artificial flavoring here could render me with high blood pressure as I’ve clearly lost my mind.
So what to eat then? I like the look of the Chicken Legend.
It’s such a legend that it’s dead in a cheap bun covered in mayonnaise.
A chicken doesn’t earn it’s “legend” title by simply flying across the Atlantic or playing the harp. Anyway, no cow asshole for me: “A fish burger, please.”
“Don’t you mean a Fillet Of Fish Burger?”
“Oh yes, sorry. I’ll rephrase that: A fish burger please, ass face.”
“Don’t you want a Fillet Of Fish meal then?” he asks, looking at me as if I’m some sort of “fish burger on its own” nut case. “Aren’t you having a drink with that either?”
“No, not unless the fish is still alive and manages to piss itself while I’m eating it. Any chance of some food instead of a question?”
“Are you eating inside or out?”
“Another question? Well, I think I’ll eat with half my body inside McDonald’s and the other half outside the door. While we’re at it, where are you eating your breakfast tomorrow, inside your house or outside in your garden shed with the pet tortoise? Now McOff!”
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