Will You Put a Leash on That Fucking Thing?
And when you let it off, will you make sure it’s in a soundproof container?
By Daniel Ian Taylor
Posted April 9th, 2007
I don’t go to McDonalds much anymore. I realise why they felt that they had to add a healthy smart choice value menu or whatever the hell it is. But it’s just not McDonalds anymore.
When I want a wholesome sandwich that is low in trans fats and carbs and all the other things I have never understood or cared about, I’ll go to Quiznos or Subway or some mom and pop operation that could actually give a good goddamn about my patronage. When I want to knock a week off the end of my life, spare my future self a few thousand raspy breaths through the ol’ oxygen mask, I go to McDonalds.
Or, I went to McDonalds, at least a lot more often than I do now. After decades of delicious deferred euthanasia, suddenly they’ve decided that they want to help me, they want to make sure I’m taking care of myself. Or they at least want to give me the choice. They’ve still got all of the old standbys I’ve always loved alongside their fiesta wraps and croissandwiches and alfalfa salads, or whatever. I don’t even know what’s on there anymore. I turn away in disgust when I look at today’s McDonalds menu.
You’ve lost your way, McDonalds. You were so caught up in your profits and your billions and billions served that you strayed from the path you were forging so courageously. It could have been you. You could have held my hand as I stepped through this veil of tears. Now it’s going to be DuMaurier and Canada’s Wonderland funnel cakes and loose women.
I wanted it to be you.
Oh well. Not all is lost. Though no longer my sweet angel of mercy, some of the things I’ve always loved about McDonalds have yet to fall silently into the fog of avarice and healthy living.
They still sell chicken nuggets by the 20 pack. They still make me feel smarter than I really am as they furrow their brows and struggle with how much change they’re supposed to give me from a ten. They still put bacon on whatever the hell I want them to, so long as I’ve got the extra 80 cents.
And they still have the Play Place.
Give them a bunch of tubes and slides and little bridges to run around on, some tables for their parents to sit at and eat and talk about how bloody brilliant their kids are. And then seal it off with 2 inches of soundproof glass. My heart swells just thinking about it.
This is what I’ve been talking about, people. This is how our lives should be all the time. This is Progress. A big aquarium for children, one they’ll absolutely beg to go into. When they terraform the moon and only let MENSA members up there and weapons are forbidden and disease and sadness are but a fading memory, there’s going to be a children’s section with a low-gravity ball pit.
Nowadays they’ve even got videogame consoles in there for the little hamsters. All the better. A bunch of little shoeless zombies all lined up in a row, tilting their heads and lolling their eyes, completely sedated.
But the best part (and regardless of how healthy they manage to make a double big mac with cheese and double extra bacon, this will bring me back to McDonalds time and time again), is when it is "Time To Go."
It’s always “Please Mommy, just five more minutes. Just five more.” I remember it well. I was the king of five more minutes. But sooner or later the good times have to end and you have to go back to your home that doesn’t have a Gamecube or a plastic slide or a carousel. Some children can handle this with grace and dignity. They put their shoes back on, and they get in the van and they go away. I like that.
But some kids will whine and scream and throw their French fries against the glass. They’ll run and hide in the tube slide, kicking at their father’s face as he tries to wrangle the little buggers with arms that just aren’t quite long enough. They’ll throw their shoes into the ball pit thinking that this will save them, that maybe they can live here forever if their mother can’t find their shoes, eating fries and McFlurries for breakfast every day.
And this is why when I go to McDonalds, I sit facing the glass at the closest table I can get, hauling on a litre-and-a-half of fountain coke, jawing mouthfuls of the biggest, greasiest hamburger that my health-conscious friends behind the counter will allow me to purchase, pounding my fist on the table and crushing the two apple pies I’ve ordered for dessert, laughing harder and louder than you’d think a man of my size is capable of.