May I Please Have a Happy Meal?

I used to eat cat food when we ran out of rabbits in the cabin in the winter. The hinges in the shed will become rusty so you can steal, chop and poison the neighbor’s livestock and tetanus – dead, preferably dead. If I were to show you the Thanksgivings I cooked for my family and Rooster, you’d die. You would arrest me. You will shut down your computer or get rid of your phone immediately for fear of getting caught. It’s not technically legal in A wise man society, but we belong to the animal kingdom, where we practice law. Jungle Law.

Unfortunately, I can tell you all about the roadside McDonald’s we had yesterday: the furniture and floors hadn’t been updated since the ’80s, the pungent smell of death from the back, and the delicious golden smell of French fries that made me hallucinate and order a huge Big Mac. The rooster asked for the same thing, plus a quarter pounder and an extra-large fry (tried to be big but was reminded by the employee in the 2004 Morgan Spurlock documentary, scolding him for trying to order such a gluttonous item from any menu, not to mention McDonald’s for hamburgers and fries.

We took the cheese off the burger before we ate. We are not rude. Bennington has eaten cheese, dairy, and even “chicken” because he’s a sick, deranged, cannibal animal that belongs in a dark, chained cave and forever away from the rest of the world. Unfortunately, we must rescue him from the underworld of New York City. If my husband hadn’t been such a bad driver and steered completely illiterate, we’d be back in Massachusetts by now. Well, I guess we’re in the South, judging by the decor: built-in ashtrays in the booths, stars and flags outside, fat gay men having sex in the bathroom (I never use a “little girls’ room”, only for commercial purposes where exchanges of the most awful take place, especially in restaurants Fast food).

Even the bathroom is decorated with pictures of food: pickles, onions, “special sauce,” tomatoes, grapes, crepe suzette, bungalow leaves, and “chicken” and all shapes: McChicken, Chicken Picks (RIP-editor), and Chicken Monogets. fallen brothers. The fallen sisters. Fallen birds of all kinds are mutilated by the trillions to deliver junk food to the planet’s main predator. Graphic design, all things considered, lacks; Iconic, but this is one of the most important of the past 75 years, golden arches such as the pyramids, Jerusalem, Rome cathedrals and other famous monuments of Arab consumption and financial exchange will not survive. But this is just my opinion. It still smells good there.

I got back to the table and three staff members gave me bonuses and a ‘thank you’ as I walked in. The rooster was sitting there, nibbling his Big Mac, enjoying the mutilated cow, one of the hostile species, a justifiable grudge. “How are your treats?” I told him they looked “delicious” and we had to start driving again. “Monica, it’s Thanksgiving. We’re having dinner here. Sit down. Say your prayers what you’re thankful for Etc. “I followed my mafia husband’s orders, and it was Thanksgiving at McDonald’s thinking of me, Dicky rock, and Bennington, the bastard ruining my life. And after our prayers, and silent resignations, we enjoyed Big Mac’s. I ate a lot of French fries. Delicious…

“The best part about the Big Mac really is the combinations. Well, you have pickles – easy. That’s not a problem. Then we add onions and lettuce, a clear choice. A clear choice. I’ll need some seasoning, at least a sauce… How about something ‘special’? Ha You are.” I was nodding my head through all of this, eating my Big Mac, not thinking about it.

“That’s when you have to get creative about it: What’s next? How do you make a unique burger? You have to get creative. I mean the buns. Consider cakes. three! It makes no sense at all. Then there’s the often omission of the burger tomato, which is a distinct flavor ingredient. This is the key to a lot of things. Well, I got the sesame seeds on the top bun, nice, and we tossed in the cheese, obviously.”

I keep nodding. right. right. My husband was talking about a Big Mac. It was Thanksgiving.

The cock vomited in the parking lot, so I drove last night. Now I think we’re in… Wisconsin? I’m not happy with this…

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