When I was young I would beg my mother to take us to McDonalds. She would say we have McDonalds at home, but I knew she was lying. I would beg and plead and cry and tell her I would jump out of the car window if she didn’t turn the car around and drive us straight to the golden arches. She would cave. She was so used to caving. She would cave for any man that noticed her, ever since dad died.
I would get the happy meal. A small little cardboard box with 4 mcnuggets and a small fry. My favorite thing to do with my small soda was to get a little bit of everything the soda machine had to offer. It was like a melting pot of sugars and carbonation. It never tasted very good, but the faces on all the adults when they watched me krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh krusshh at the dispenser was good enough for me. I suppose most things were good enough for me. I didn’t have much choice in the matter at that age. Our one bedroom apartment was good enough. Our 1982 Honda Civic was good enough. The bus ride to school was good enough. But those nuggets were beyond good. Taking the tight bursting ketchup packets and spewing them all across my plastic tray lined with thin newspaper branding materials. Drawing smiley faces with the ketchup. These were good times. Sometimes we were even lucky enough to go to the location that had an n64 in the play place. The games were never the good ones, and the controllers were always broken, but this didn’t bother me much, it was better than what we had at home. We had the original nintendo at home with two games. Ducktales and Super Mario Brothers 2. That was it, she never bothered buying new games. She was always spending our money on Mcdonalds she said.
After I was finished with my happy meal and feeling quite happy I’d go play on the play place. Put my shoes in the cubby and make friends as if it wasn’t hard to make friends. It was hard to make friends. But not there. There. In the. What was I saying? Oh hello sir, how can I help you today? May I take your order? Would you like to supersize that? Yes, it comes with a toy. That will be 16.43. Would you like to donate a dollar to the Ronald McDonald Euthanasia House? Please just swipe there. Great! But maybe next time? Your order will be out in just a few minutes.
Hot today’ Harry remarked to the overweight cashier with the sillhouette of her head surrounded by the McStarbucks menu. She agreed, and Harry grimaced at that. Of course it was hot today, stupid bitch, fuck off. “I really hate McDonalds. It used to be good. Then people ruined it. I don’t like people who aren’t like me. And that’s why I think I. Am good. For this. Company.” Anon said in the mirror, matter-of-factly, of course. He was preparing to interview at the prestigious McDonald’s Manhattan location, for the coveted position of Senior Burger Engineer.
The 12-year-old boy sat up from his BOSS™ leather office chair and shouted, a wordless scream. This all in fact, of course. He shuddered. “I sold it to a man in Tokyo, known for his business entrepreneurship. Or maybe his lack thereof. '' He then slumped back down, turned on his Windows™ desktop computer, opened Firefox™, He was shaken by the whole ordeal, but not stirred. He admittedly enjoyed watching the boy, being the missive fag that he was, but began having second thoughts. About. Working at. The co. Mpany©®™. This as a result of the Burger Outburst, infamous as it was.
“Wait!”
“Have it your way, punk.”
What was he doing here? Long past midnight, another night gone, and what had happened? Nothing, an aimless ride without even weed to take the edge off, listening to bass boosted niggertunes, pretending they were rebels, pretending the cops gave a damn if they drove the tentative fifteen miles above the speed limit.
Now they were here, sterile blistering light reflected in grimy tables, attended upon by sheboons. Not even the pleasant kind—evocative of the original jungle temptresses, whose owners questioned whether they had committed beastiality—but an inbred horror, grostuque and inhuman, too stupid to even be on welfare, too monstrous to attract even the most desperate nigger.
Worst of all was the smell, the burger exhaust that hung in the air, smelling more like a laboratory than a restaurant, the dense smell of plastic overlaid by the anticipation of decomposition, but that too was a lie, these products so artificial that even nature was mocked by their sheer unreality.
It became too much, all of a sudden. He had to get out; standing up swiftly, chair falling backwards with a clash. His friends questioned him, their voices melding like so many sounds of the night, but he was already striding away, out out out.
He looked up, couldn’t see the stars, couldn’t smell anything but asphalt and gasoline. He had to escape at any cost, he thought, shifting into a forward sprint. There must be a way out, he thought, as the recycled air flowed through his lungs. When did we pass the point of no return?
The truck driver never saw him, he was too busy Lovin It™.
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