Let me start all of this off by saying, first of all, fuck you. I hate your fucking McCompany. I hate your fucking McEmployees. I hate your fucking McExcuse for your fucking McFood. I hate McFucking everything about you, so let me fucking explain why.
I’m forced to patronize your fucked up establishment at least once a month because I have a wife who has been sucked into your hellish fucking abyss and just has to have her fucking “treat”. I don’t know what the fuck it is about your chicken sandwiches, but my wife foams at the mouth and her eyes glaze over at the prospect of eating your over processed “chicken” sandwiches that come conveniently in the shape of no chicken recognizable to mankind. She has to fucking have them at least once a month. So I take her, grudgingly, because it’s usually her choice as a fucking “treat”. Essentially, I feel like I’m committing a serious hate crime towards my wife because I buy her McBullshit with known carcinogens and who knows what the fuck else in it, but that’s not the fucking point.
The entire way to McDonald’s, I try to talk her out of it. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have ice cream for a treat?” I ask. Her answer is always a resounding, “No. I want McDonald’s.”
Well fuck a fucking duck!
Pulling in to your fucking parking lot happens in slow motion for me. I am so consumed with regret that time has now become a concept, and there’s usually some dickbag McZombie fucktard lurching lethargically from the door toward his Ford Shitbucket RS. It’s not that he doesn’t care that I need to get to the drive-thru window before my wife has a fucking meltdown. No, he understands very well, but he can’t move his goddamn limbs very fast anymore. He has just consumed roughly 9 billion calories of toxic fucking sludge. He turns slowly toward me, drooling on himself, his eyes pleading.
“Please fucking hit and kill me,” he mouths. “Please.”
An eternity and some change later, I make it to the twenty fucking car long line, and wait my turn. Things go seem to move surprisingly fast. A less wise person would attribute this to expedited customer service. A learned professional knows that this is because you’re fucking filling my bag with whatever the fuck touches your hand first. Don’t get me wrong; I will get food, it’s just that the likelihood of that food being what I actually ordered is so low, that your company is the reason why the decimal system was even established.
Now it’s time for me to order. This should be simple, right? Because you’ve placed a capable, English-speaking human being at the other end of the microphone, right?
Wrong. That is not what happens.
I give my order to someone who doesn’t have a fucking clue what I’m saying until I get to the vital part: no lettuce on the chicken sandwiches please.
“Mustard and onions?” he or she squawks back to me, incredulous. No mustard and onions. Why is that so bizarre to you? It’s not like I’ve asked to be served a live fucking goat. I haven’t asked for human blood to dip my McGreasey fries in. Stop treating me like I’m a criminal! See what you’ve done? Now I’m all defensive, you fucking assholes!
I calm down and pay, which, for the record, is the only efficient process in the history of your company. Of course it is.
Then, I get to drive up and take possession of someone else’s food. If I’m lucky, I’ll get what I ordered, but you McFucktards never seem to be capable of the no lettuce thing. I imagine all seven of your employees standing around my wife’s sandwiches scratching their unwashed asses in disbelief.
“Are you sure he said no lettuce, Juanita?” asks the manager.
“Si,” she confirms. “Mustard and onions!”
They don’t believe her, so they top it with extra fucking wilted lettuce and excess condoms that they’ve soaked in vinegar, dyed green, and marketed as pickles.
My favorite McFucking part of receiving my meal (heretofore known as “The Last Supper” because I’m really taking a big fucking chance here) is the person at the window who forcefully shoves the bags into my truck. I always say thank you. They’re either blind, deaf or both, because they don’t say a word or make eye contact. Sometimes they grunt a little, but not this time. I politely ask for ketchup. They slam their little jail cell door and stare at me from behind the bars. I drive off in pure fucking fear.
This, McDonald’s, is a very common and very typical experience at your fucking place where you make things that you call fucking food. I refuse to call you a restaurant by virtue of the fact that there is nothing restful or idyllic about going to your place. Those commercials with people smiling? Bullmotherfuckingshit. They must have been at someplace happy!
There’s a light at the end of this shitty McDonald’s riddled existence though: They are closing the McDonald’s near us. I’m not going to fucking tell her that there is a new one being built in another location either, so fuck you. I will feed her steak every night of the week if it means I never ever have to go back to a fucking McDonald’s ever again. Thanks to you, my wife’s blood has chunks of saturated fat floating in it. Thanks to you, I am drunk as hell right now, because we had McDonald’s for fucking dinner tonight and the tequila was the only thing that made me stop wanting to end my own fucking life.
I hate you, McDonald’s. You are like the government. You sound like a good idea at first, but then you really examine all the fucking moving parts that make it whole and you realize that you’re just watching a really fucked up circus. I hate circuses and I really hate fucking douchebag clowns.
I hate you, McDonald’s. I will always fucking hate you.