I, good sir, am not loving it (commentary)
Bob Mackey
Issue date: 5/26/05 Section: OpEd
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I ordered what looked pretty safe to me: two hamburgers and a medium fry. I shied away from anything with the Mc prefix, knowing that it could spell certain doom. Hey, I was feeling self-destructive not suicidal, remember? Relieved to think that I would live to see all of Sanford and Son released on DVD, the kind teenager working the mic read me my total.
I was incredulous to believe that an entire meal could cost three dollars. At first I felt a little guilty about not spending enough, but then I realized that my burger was probably stitched together by some adorable waif in Indonesia. McDonald's did not deserve any more of my money! I handed over the paltry sum in exchange for a bag of steaming goodies. "Watch out, hon, those fries are very hot." When the clerk gave me this warning, I thought "I'm a human being, not an animal, and I can wait until I get home to eat!"
Sadly, I underestimated the siren song of the French fries, and there was no one there to stick cotton in my nose or to tie my hand to the steering wheel. I cried tears of deliciousness and pain as the hot oil burned its way through many layers of finger and mouth flesh as I mashed handfuls of French fries into my mouth. Skin grafts are only temporary, but the ambrosial taste of those cooked potatoes will stay with me for the rest of my life.
The end of my fast food yarn is not as exciting as the voyage was. Predictably, the food entered my body in a uniform and well-planned fashion, but when it was time for it to exit it was like that episode of Cheers where Norm wouldn't leave the bar and eventually killed three people on the way out. The rest of that day was filled with the sights and sounds of indigestion that no respectable medical journal would dare report on.
Moaning in pain and misery, I could only think, "Damn, those fries were good."
I was incredulous to believe that an entire meal could cost three dollars. At first I felt a little guilty about not spending enough, but then I realized that my burger was probably stitched together by some adorable waif in Indonesia. McDonald's did not deserve any more of my money! I handed over the paltry sum in exchange for a bag of steaming goodies. "Watch out, hon, those fries are very hot." When the clerk gave me this warning, I thought "I'm a human being, not an animal, and I can wait until I get home to eat!"
Sadly, I underestimated the siren song of the French fries, and there was no one there to stick cotton in my nose or to tie my hand to the steering wheel. I cried tears of deliciousness and pain as the hot oil burned its way through many layers of finger and mouth flesh as I mashed handfuls of French fries into my mouth. Skin grafts are only temporary, but the ambrosial taste of those cooked potatoes will stay with me for the rest of my life.
The end of my fast food yarn is not as exciting as the voyage was. Predictably, the food entered my body in a uniform and well-planned fashion, but when it was time for it to exit it was like that episode of Cheers where Norm wouldn't leave the bar and eventually killed three people on the way out. The rest of that day was filled with the sights and sounds of indigestion that no respectable medical journal would dare report on.
Moaning in pain and misery, I could only think, "Damn, those fries were good."