Ronald you sumbitch!


I’m a fairly aware fellow, and I don’t mind admitting that in the past I’ve turned a blind eye to things because I felt they were harmless or didn’t matter to me. I mean who hasn’t at one point or another in their life.

Recently however with the help of my good friend Evan and some provocative literature and media sources, my eyes took in their last affront from someone I’ve trusted even from my earliest childhood years.

This is a fond “Fuck You” to McDonalds.

That’s right… good old Mickey Dee’s. Fuck you and the Ray Kroc you rode in on.

This all started when my friend Evan pointed out how much he hated the new McDonald’s “I’m loving it” ad campaign. It’s not anything particular about the ads; it’s just that I’m tired of McDonald’s telling me what to do. It all started with that smiling Red-headed Bastard. No not Vince, I’m talking about Ronald. I was only around three years old when that jerk started manipulating me. Telling me to coerce my parents into getting me a happy meal so I could get a crappy ass toy. And why?

Because he was a clown with big red hair in a big yellow jumpsuit, and since I was taught to like clowns, and had a weakness for primary colours I fell into his trap. I should of sensed something wrong even back then. Ronald taught to eat my meal right away before the Hamburglar came and stole my food, so there I was, a happy little kid stuffing my face. And as I stuffed my face I always ordered a milkshake with my meal, because Ronald always made them look so good.

This combination would always result in the same effect; I’d gorge myself until I barfed. That’s right I was the kid that kept the mop bucket moving. No matter how many times my Mom suggested I skip the shake, I wouldn’t listen. Why would I… She couldn’t do magic, she wasn’t a close personal friend of Grimace, and in all the years of my young life I hadn’t even once seen her in a bright yellow jumpsuit. So I kept up my McDonald’s conditioned Bulimia for a few more years.

As I slowly got past my condition, I developed a new one that wasn’t even remotely better. I could finally eat my whole happy meal and be contently full. Life was good.

Then came playland.

It was bright coloured (And as I told you I had a terrible weakness for primary colours) and full of tunnels, slides, mesh, and round pools of brightly coloured balls. I couldn’t resist such a lure, what child could.  McDonald’s had me again in a terrible predicament. With their speedy service I had no time to play, and my mother wouldn’t let me play until I had eaten my food. Take a little boy, fill his little belly with grease, throw him into a psychedelic jungle gym for an hour and what do you get? Another case of McDonald’s conditioned Bulimia, that’s what.  And still I never learned from these experiences. 

Skip forward to the here and now.

Even today I can’t help but fall for the lure of Ronald. I’ll be within a block of it’s doorstep when my brain starts telling me how much I would enjoy their “not quite a chicken” nuggets. My stomach senses it and grumbles in anticipation of their assembly line burgers and vascular clotting french fries. The fries that taste so good in Canada because they fry them in vegetable oil and beef tallow; laughs on you vegetarians. And still, there is enemy number one. An enemy whose viscous fluid, time and time again, causes frontal lobe hemorrhaging just by sucking it up through the straw. A beverage whose aneurysms are backed up only by a stabbing cold headache that refuses to abate, the milkshake.

Even now after all it’s childhood exoduses, the milkshake haunts me with it’s sugary allure.  It threatens to bring me back to the folds and partake of its dairy mockery. And even though Ronald has angered me so many times, his past transgressions suddenly become clouded with forgiveness, and naive optimism. Maybe this time will be better, Ronald wouldn’t lie, look how yellow his jumpsuit is. 

And so the cycle goes, I eat and feel sick and curse myself for allowing my stomach to fall into ruination again, but I am becoming wiser.

This restaurant doesn’t care about me. It only wants my money. 

The golden arches don’t glimmer; they only have a greasy shine. And Ronald, you icon of childish joy, I’m on to you. You may seem fun, you may seem magical, and you may even leave wonderful presents in my Happy Meal.

You may do all these things that shine your light of benevolence upon children’s gullible little faces, but every once in a while even John Wayne Gacy dressed up as a clown.

Just so you know…

 

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