McDonald's
*NOTE: Wrote this after the high past. The whole thing is a true story. It happened while I was in McDonald's with my friend Stephanie. We had just gotten high and we went in a McDonald's to talk. While we were there, we happened to observe many things which probably wouldn't have gotten a second thought had we been sober.
McDonald’s is a safe haven. Everybody knows how disgusting and unreal the food is, but somehow the appearance of those golden arches becomes a comforting site to see. One of the first symbols a Western-culture raised child recognizes is the McDonald’s one. It’s a monopoly. Cheap, convenient food. What a farce.
The cheap layout design of the restaurant, the greasy counters, the teenage workers. Everything screams some sort of Communist plot. The propaganda plastered everywhere is unsettling. “10 cents from every meal donated to Ronald’s Helping Kids Fund” or what the fuck else. It’s the first step in the monopoly.
Getting a McFlurry, Stephanie and I discuss the meaning of life in the back of the restaurant. Silent voices surround us. The look of thought plays upon everybody’s face. The music that plays over the speaker, is dull. Dreary. Sappy melodies that are played at poor men’s funerals. Some sort of glossed over message that was once meaningful, but that now has become so adrift in a sea of cliché, it appears to be nothing more than a background character in their Communist plot. Seeing the workers behind the counters makes me think of the cheap labour that had been Gorbachev’s time. They get payed the same if they do a crappy job, they get payed the same if they do a good job. And that amount is very little. Why not be lazy?
I notice the people that come in. Creepy old senior citizens that discuss bingo. An owlish appearing woman who seems bored. Drug dealers crouch in the corner, away from the rest of the patrons, discussing money and cars. Homeless people drift in, with their panhandled money clutched tightly in their palms. Standing at the counter, they count out the change. A business man talking on a cell-phone in a stressed, intense way orders a coffee. He doesn’t make eye-contact with the workers. He’s wearing suede pants, a wool sweater and a leather jacket. I think that all the animals that were used for that professional and stylish, competent and important business ensemble, could have fed those kids in Ronald’s Helping Communist Kids Fund.
Breaking out the jar of peanut butter, we discuss further. Draped on the walls are the new Deli sandwich commercials. The men in those ads are neither good-looking, nor bad. They have a comforting, familiar look to them. While pondering this, the music suddenly changes to some up-beat crappy happy tracks. The change in the patrons is instant, they start devouring their food faster. Almost as if it’s some sort of mind-control plot…Perhaps I underestimated them. Mistaking them for Communists when, clearly, they are much much more. Who has the power to control minds? Aliens or Satanists. Probably the Satanists. Everybody knows there are no such things as aliens.
The starving student gets up, ready to leave. After throwing out his garbage, he counts his change, making sure he has enough to take the bus back to his dorm to study.
My God! I’m struck with a thought. If McDonald’s is a Satanist corporation, we’re funding some sort of evil world scam. I have no intention of being part of it. Especially if the quality of the food is mediocre. Fuck that. “We must leave!” I say suddenly to Stephanie, putting away the peanut butter.
“We’ll leave after I go to the bathroom”, I conclude.
After the cold bathroom experience, we head out the doors. Two quiet strange girls who, for some reason, started eating a jar of peanut butter. They count out change for the bus and see if they have any weed left.
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