McDonalds Can Suck My Balsac
2007-04-25 - 12:31 a.m.

before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

Im down by one of the bridges in town at a boat launch, looking over the river and a stone dock.

I threw a french-fry out the window and now the gulls are fighting over it.

Nearby is a fishing bench.





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Somedays everything just works against you.

All you can do is try to get your karma on track, and make yourself happy, however you can. �Even if its something small, like getting a latte'.

That's what I thought, anyway. �

So I went to a McDonald's across the river. �I switch up fast-food purveryors occaisionally to avoid the 'goddam, you eat here a lot' look.

Hey, I have a 34 waist and a 34 inseam. �I'm nowhwere near obese. �Not like the majority of the midwest population.

(what's really freaky are the guys who have seemingly slim waists, only to have their girth overflow the band of their pants and spill down the front like a �Niagra of cellulite, like some sort of bizzarre midrif fat suit that you could just cut off and 'bingo!', a slim person would emerge. �How do you NOT notice that shit and do something about it? �Do you really expect to get fucked?

Then there's the guys that just flat out give up. �Saw one a half hour ago, with his shotgun-riding companion. �[These guys always have some sort of weird flunky...he's usually skinny, adorned in flannel and a trucker's cap...and I always suspect some sort of bully/victim or otherwise sexual relationship going on between the two. �Brokeback junkyard parts or something like that. �Who pitches and who catches? �Depends on the dynamic. �If the fat guy is the bully, dominant one, than he pitches. �If he's just the verbose one of the pair, then he's catching whatever cums his way.

Hmmm. �That would make a nice one-act parody 'Brokeback Junkyard'. �

*sigh*

Its probably already been done.

SPOILER ALERT

The dog, rex, watches the whole time.]

Anyway, the dude that I saw was the typical 'gave up on himself' type of guy, which engenders a certain level of respect from me. �Maybe he was losing the game, and he just decided not to play. �Whatever. �Not my business to judge. �Thing is, he must forfeit any possible success under his current philisophical regeime, or be forever known as a hypocrite. �And hey, he's probably just a scumbag anyway.

But this guy had the navy blue shirt (dirty) with holes in it, jeans, scruff, approaching fifty, or looking like it, in a pick up truck packed with all kinds of trash, damaged and beat up all to hell and back, a truck easily from the eighties, along with the last happy moments of this fuckers life except when his little friend spunks on his back, or even better, in his gigantic, sweaty anal cavity only to leave a smelly brown spot on the oily tweed junkyard chair that he sits in when he is inbetween dreaded moves of his bulk, 350 if he was an ounce, and hair only on the back of his head. �Long flowing hair, thin, ratty, �blowing in the wind, flapping in the breeze as his truck belches oil smoke.

Yep, he was freaky. �He gave up on it all. �And should also eat McDonald's with no conscience. �He only has the upcoming coranary to look forward to now. �That and his diminutive companion making sweet, sweet love to his butthole.�)

In the end, I eat what I want. �And what I wanted was a fucking McDonaldland Latte. �I have a punch card. When I get five of them, I get a free one. �

I present the card to the young girl at the drive-through, and she balks. �She runs off and tracks down a manager to consult with him about the "problem".

"These are only for medium drinks." �she says when she returns.

What the fuck do I care? �Ive gotten a few of the free latte's, and I always get a small. �They punch my card all the time. �This is the first I've heard of this.

And thanks for the emphasis, dipshit. �YOU work at the fucking McDonald's, chief, not me. �So I didn't read the card, so fuckin' what? �Do YOU read every piece of trash that comes into your possession?

She saw me tighten up.

"That's news to me." �I said.

And what gets me, is she could have just punched the fucker. �Its a punch-card. ��Its a hole-punch. �There are no electronic surveillance parts to it. ��

What does she care? �Trying to make manager? �Of a goddam McDonald's?

Because, you know, those managers make SIX FIGURES. �They are the envy of their neighbors, and the local schoolchildren want to be exactly like them when they grow up: �obese, hopeless, and reeking of fry-oil every night.

(in a separate issue, the only McDonald's managers I have ever liked are the ones who eyes betray their detachment. �You can look into their obese, mildly sweating faces and know they don't give a good goddam if the place burns down.� Just as long as a rat doesn't turn up in the fryer everything will be allright.

Its the pricks, usually the OLD pricks in special 'McDonald's attire' (like a longsleeved collard shirt that looks ironed and starched) that look all happy about what the fuck they're doing, their management dreams finally fulfilled. �YOU WORK AT MCDONALD'S AND YOU'RE FIFTY. �YOU STILL HAVE A NAMETAG. �HATE LIFE.

You know, to think of it, the road to a better America involves burning down all the McDonald's. �Right down to the fucking ground. �Nothing but beat up clowns and oily fires across the land and we will start a new era in human development.)

Now, she could have said, "This is just for medium drinks. �I'll punch it this time, but next time you have to order a medium drink." �She COULD have said that. �And I would have went merrily on my not-so-merry way, and I would continue to buy over-priced latte's from her establishment.

No, by-the-book-Betty had to make me feel like a retard.

"I-I'm SORRY," �she said, as if I'd traumatized her somehow.

But what could I do? �They got me. �They already had my cash.

I didn't say a word, accepted my lot, and drove off like a good fish.

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In a related note, I tend to despise any corporate assholes.

Like the guy that came into the video store that I patronize. �He was a real diminutive rat-fuck, with dusty blond hair, a thin molester moustache, tucked in corporate blue polo-shirt, the whole nine.

I saw all the staff standing around stiffen up as he walked into the store and loudly proclaimed, "AHHHH. THATS WHAT I LIKE TO SEE. �A CLEAN ENTRYWAY."

Huh? �Are you kidding me?

Who gives a damn? �Why do YOU give a damn? �It means absolutely nothing.

And, gee, I'm sorry you sold your soul to Satan for a middle management position. �I know that makes YOU think you're important, but really, you are a bug on the windshield of life. �

Why do you care? �More importantly, how the fuck do you manage to care? �

And, what kind of fuckin' idiot are you? �That entryway has smelled like spoiled bum's piss every day since I've started going to that trash-heap. �Its got its own funk that slaps you in the face when you walk in the door. Are you stupid or something?

I�can't respect anyone like that, any corporate cock-sucker of any sort. �And I can't take them seriously at all. �

Plus, you know, you KNOW that if you're under their thumb, they will do everything in their power to crush your soul and make you suck Satan's cock along with them. �Its so impossible to force true respect out of someone, yet they will try. �They will try.

Can't stand assholes like that.

Its stupid shit like that which kills a man. �Its like going into the helpdesk call center that I worked at for a few years. �They wanted me to 'smile' when I picked up the phone.

Why? �They can't fucking SEE me.

"Oh, well, they can tell. �You just sound happier when you smile."

I sound happier when I smile? �Tell you what. �I sound a lot happier when I've got my dick in my girl while watching porn. �Can we make that happen, too? �

How stupid do you think I am?

And they even had the goddam phone flash 'SMILE!!!' on the caller ID when your phone would ring.

"Well, if you don't want to smile, we can just reflect that on your next evaluation."

How about you suck my cock? �A good blow job usually puts a smile on my face. � �

I just can't take any of that seriously, that whole corporate mentality which dictates you bleed for a corporation that DOES NOT give a flying fuck about you, wherein you fight and scrap with the other employees because of perpetual fear of losing your job, work your fingers to the bone doing mindless, soul-sucking work, and, above all, take it seriously.

I can't take anyone seriously that believes in any of that. �Sure, shill if you have to, but don't make others bow and scrape.

Is it wrong that I hope for apocalyptic events sometimes?

Send the meteor, Sweet Jesus. �Send the meteor!