It’s a dark time in your life when you realize you don’t know where in the McDonald’s playground your only child is.
Let me rephrase that. It’s a dark time in your life when you realize you’re in a McDonald’s.
I know it’s cool to bash on fast food these days. I know it’s hypocritical to bash I place that I loved so much when I was allowed in the ball pit. And I know the industry helps the economy and teaches teenagers the importance of hard work and all that crap.
I also know that the food comes wrapped in paper with its name on it. That’s should be enough to justify 450 words of mocking.
What confuses me the most about these places is how come when I eat something me or my wife made, when I burp, I can taste the lasagna again; but if I eat anything from McDonald’s the only thing I can taste in shame and a sense of regret.
I’m also confused what the food product the Grimace is suppose to represent. Did McDonald’s used to sell homosexual gumdrops?
I remember when McDonald’s was my idea of heaven. When I was a kid I would rather go to McDonald’s than the beach, the zoo and the plastic dinosaur store combined.
I had fantasies about showing up and McDonald’s one day and being allowed behind the counter and giving a tour of the Willy Wonka-esque world of wonders that surely waited behind, but with a grease waterfall instead of chocolate, and instead of Oompa Loompas, walking zits.
And now, all I can do when drive by a McDonald’s is judge. I judge the customers who keep filling their faces with nothing but calories and lies. I judge the corporate sellouts that power the whole enterprise. I judge everyone but the employees.
They have enough problems. They work at McDonald’s.
Also, there’s something about a McDonald’s pickle that just calls out to me. I want one so bad right now.
So that’s my anti-McDonald’s rant. Am I a real blogger now?
Or do I have to do a part two where I talk about Taco Bell and the unspeakable things it does to my bathroom (my theory is whenever I eat there, someone from Del Taco sneaks into my house with a bucket of sewage, it’s the only way to explain it).
Oh, and for anyone concerned about where my son was, he was just talking as much time to go down the spinny slide as it take him to feed his fish.
And while he was up there, I got to eat his chicken nuggets, so I came out ahead.
Phew, just made it.