Happy Meal?

A friend of mine published a truly entertaining post about the follies of McDonald's tonight, and it made me shake my head and think of grossness. Just grossness. And, I suppose, gratitude that I haven't chosen to visit that establishment in a few years.

I detest McDonald's. I shudder at the happy-faced creepster clown whose seated plastic visage with outstretched arms entices innocent children to sit on his lap. I despise the oddly crunchy-yet-old french fry smell that wafts from its doors, reminding me of late nights worked at Walgreens in close quarters with unwashed, foul-breathed clientele. I loathe the flat, uniform nature of the hockey puck discs of meat. I hate the vastly unhealthy nature of McDonalds' processed offerings, and remember vividly how vile my stomach felt after gorging on a Double Cheeseburger to soak up a blotto Saturday night into Sunday morning. And in reminiscing, I invariably stray from my staunch disapproval and shame myself in thinking how good the preservatives in those hot, salty fries tasted, and have to remind myself that I abhor the abomination that is my hated and revered Chicken McNugget. Oh, how I have flagellated myself over my long-time love of those revoltingly processed nuggets. Year after year, I think the burning memory of those crispy, tasty little chunks of crack will fade, and year after year, I can still be tempted to run to the nearest McD's at the mere whiff of a co-worker's lunch. I hate you, McDonald's. You sicken me.

(I do like these Ronalds, however.)

Actually, if I remember correctly, the last time I went to McD's was in March of 2009 when I failed my Series 4 exam for work (spectacularly-- I got a 33%; I think I wasn't including the calculations of the fourth leg of the more complicated options orders) and, after beating my head against the steering wheel repeatedly and calling my boss in a distinctly not right state of mind, I plummeted to my own personal rock bottom. Sobbing during my very unsafe drive/swerve home, I veered into a McDonald's out of sheer, desperate need to recapture some semblance of feeling good. I took the drive-thru in near wails and ordered my precious nugget meal with a strawberry shake in a voice hardly recognizable as my own. Thankfully, the soothing scent of the squeeze-tube nuggets calmed me enough to complete the drive home in mere tears instead of hysterics, promising I'd feel happy again soon and that not all was lost. I selfishly cradled my pathetic stash with a paranoid eye as I stumbled into my thankfully empty living room and flicked on the TV. There, with Steve Wilkos breaking up screeching midget fights in the background, I slowly crammed nugget after nugget into my sniveling mouth, partially-chewed crumbs and strawberry shake dripping with my tears onto my gleaming hardwood floor.