I once loved McDonalds. Even after I worked there for a summer, my lust for Grade D meat slathered with Mac Sauce grew unabated. The mere smell of McDonalds pickles put me into a frenzy like a cornered wolf. It took every mite of my resolve not to leap over the counter, punch the manager in the throat, and take two sopping handfuls of Mcpickles into the woods with me to gorge myself until the police arrived. Once. Until I tried the Buffalo Ranch McChicken. After an appetizer of two McChickens and a McDouble, I tasted it for the first time. It was delicious like forbidden fruit. I loved McDonalds still, even when my stomach started cramping like a nameless space Marine in 1979s blockbuster hit, Alien. I loved McDonalds up until the very moment I entered the bathroom of the Union Beach Boro hall. In that lonely cell I experienced unspeakable horrors. I cried out to God to end the pain even if it meant killing me. I bargained, I wept. I emerged almost 45 minutes later and the building was empty, just like my soul, but for a single clerk behind a desk who said S-Sir, what are you doing here to which I responded Atoning for my sins. McDonalds Buffalo Ranch McChicken. Not even once. McDonalds
Posted on: Sat, 05 Apr 2014 18:52:29 +0000
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