|
THE LAST WORD
|
|
THE LAST MKSUPPERTM
I swore I�d never eat at MuckyDee�s ever again, but I�m as hungry as twelve David Blaines and there are teeth impressions in my rubber steering wheel. My car puffs to the queue�s most critical junction. Do I veer left into the carwash-esque Drive-Throo? Or steer right into the crowded car park? A visit to MuckyDee�s is a long exercise in decision making. I promptly make the wrong one as I pull away from the coughing cars that are shunted so close together a piece of paper wouldn�t fit in the gaps between them.
Parking next to a congested bin, I face my next ordeal. My opponents are the heavy double doors that make an embarrassingly loud rattle as I PUSH and lean into them. Trying a new tactic against my adversaries, I PULL with all my might and am politely shoved aside as a scrum of families pile out. They are replaced by reinforcements pushing in. I have become an unofficial doorman. Dante once wrote that the gates of hell are adorned with �Abandon every hope, all you who enter� Above me, the chilling MuckyDee�s sign is engraved with �Welcome�.
A sense of D�j� vu disorients me as I push, pull and punch my way in. I�ve never been to this MuckyDee�s before, but it feels as familiar as family and as fake as Hollywood. There is not a happy face in here, but plenty of crying, raised voices, forced politeness. And that�s just the staff. The customers are as restless as cattle.
Me and my fellow drones plod towards the twelve counters as if we are clocking in. Eyes are raised to the illuminated script of the menu in search of enlightenment. I memorise my choice of �food� and wonder: if a tree falls in the rain forest, does it make a MuckyDee�s? We are all aware of eco-pollution, but is there such a thing as cultural pollution? This mass-manufactured slice of plastic America can�t be healthy. The food�s pretty bad too.
�Hi-my-name-is-Julie� wishes me a good afternoon from her script and demands my order. This former-human is now a sullen-faced child soldier, garbed in the blue-tartan of her regiment. She must be a private. There�s only one star on her badge.
I have been rehearsing for this scene all my life. My choice of meal is a running mantra in my mind. I tell �Hi-my-name-is-Julie� that I would like � I�ve forgotten. Panicking, surrounded by people, a sweat breaks out. I grip the counter for support. Ordering the first thing my eye falls on, I begin to calm down. Until �Hi-my-name-is-Julie� asks what drink I want. I can�t handle this stress. I shake. I sob. I cry. I want a large milkshake. MkPinkTM flavour.
Shoving both hands into my pockets, I hurl a hail of change at �Hi-my-name-is-Julie�. I�ve been to MuckyDee�s thousands of times. Had everything on the menu twice and I�ve never memorised the prices. Not going to start now. Something that might be food is shoved at me. I�m shoved out of the queue.
The eating area is, of course, full. It�s full of kids aged 4 to 44. The ones in charge complain about the food, the crappy toys, and the journey. Their servants say �There, there. You can ride up front on the way back.�
I sit beneath a poster of a big red monster thing. It invites me to spend my next birthday here. I mentally decline. I reach into my bag of grease and pull out a mustard-coloured rat. This toy makes a �PEE-KAH!� noise when throttled. A sauce-stained child greedily eyes my treasure. I shove it in my pocket.
I appear to be the proud owner of a Smiley MealTM. Oh joy. Malicious prank, incompetence or a subconscious return to childhood? I don�t care. I�m going to eat it, if not enjoy it. I chew the shiny bun. The cheese glues itself to my upper palate like a parasite. A 100% salty fry absorbs 90% of my body water. Sucking the milkshake nearly induces a hernia. There is sacheted-sauce all over my fingers; shame it wasn�t on my food.
The carcass of my meal consists of 1 MkPaperbagTM, 1 MkCupTM, 1 MkStrawTM, 1 MkStraw wrapperTM, 1 MkBoxTM, 1 MkChipsleeveTM, and 1 MkServietteTM. I head to the MkW.C.TM for a MkShitTM.
Now that I had fooled my body into thinking it was full, it was time to leave the rubbish on the table for a wage-droid and head on home for dinner.
As I gladly departed, there was no longer a queue to enter. Typical. A big sign thanked me for my custom, urged me to use the bins and �come again soon�. The Poke M�n screamed �PEE-KAH-CHOO!� as it flew through the window. I burped and immediately felt hungry and vowed never to return. Till next time.
|
|
All original content copyright |
