Et Tu, Hamburgler?

So once again I bring you "True Adventures From (Suburban) McDonalds".

Yes I've seen "Supersize Me". And yes, it’s frightening how quickly an over-processed foodstuff like McD's can compromise the human immune system.

But have you had the fries lately?

Thank you.

And there I was, watching my three year old daughter munch down aforementioned grease-sticks of joy when something caught her eye: The McDonald's contribution to plastic-mold architecture.

No, the other contribution besides the faux-buttocks curved plasti-slab banquette seat that leaves you feeling like you've been violated by 40 pounds of heaving, sweaty polymers after sitting crammed in to one like too many fries in a basket.

That's right~The Human Habitrail.

Call it what you will.

Playland, Adventure Land, Ronald's Funhouse~but let's call it what it truly is: a giant rat trap for the unsuspecting.

You've seen it. Giant plastic tubes suspended above ground, linked by tiny plastic stairs, interconnected by tiny plastic connector passageways.

It sits before you, multicolored and promising of unbridled fun for you and your little one.

There's even a sign, caring and cautionary in its message "Small Children Not Allowed Without Parent".

Clever ploy. Any dad worth his middle age sees a sign like that and can feel his chest puff out like some past his prime superhero determined to jam his pork chop legs in to those too small tights and fight injustic one last time.

Which is exactly what they want.

I vaguely remember turning to my wife, catching her eye as Ella and I climbed in to the first tube-of-hell.

I recall seeing her shake her head, small smile crease her face.

At the time I thought she was thinking, "You go Superdad".

I now realize she was thinking "How many times are you going to crawl in to one of those things and panic before you remember you're claustrophobic you idiot?".

Like any surrealist life-moment frozen in time, I had forewarning.

A five-year-old boy had already crawled in to the trap ahead of us. Hearing us enter he turned to see Ella and since he was all of two years older than her, called it exactly at he saw it. “Come here baby, crawl to me!”.

Then, seeing me half-crawling up behind her he paused a moment, then called me exactly as he saw it “Um..come on big boy!”.

Jamming my body up and past the fake plastic stairs while holding on to E for her dear life wasn’t too hard. In fact, it was kind of fun.

Until we got to the tube. The “Tube” is (if you’re a 40 yr old man who eats at McDonald’s) a not very large plastic tube that’s suspended about nine feet in the air. If you’re a 35 pound three year old, then you’re basically a mini-cooper in the Lincoln Tunnel.

I was the Titanic turned sideways in the Suez Canal.

The Tube moves when you crawl in it. Especially if though you used to be a pretty trim 165 lbs in your fighting days, the last fight you had was a quick and brutal one round KO to a pint of Ben And Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk.

Ella was a good five feet ahead of me, wheeling along when the first panic wave hit me.

Panic’s great. It’s the ultimate attention getter because it travels at light speed via every firing synapse in your brain and it screams I’M FCUKING JAMMED IN A TUBE AND I CANNOT BREATHE.

Which wasn’t exactly true. I wasn’t jammed, I just couldn’t bring myself to move. And I could breathe, but my breath was funny sounding. Like I was taking too big gulps of air through a straw. Little, forced wheezy breaths.

Through the small cascading sheet of sweat blocking my vision, I could visualize headlines in local papers “Big Boy Meets Tragic End In Tube”.

The Tube felt suddenly smaller. And it seemed darker inside then I remember. Ella was just ahead of me, doing fun little pony-kicks, her back legs flying up then whacking down on the tube behind her which made the whole suspiciously-engineered contraption shake like the death rattle.

Think about it. You’re a young, talented architect just out of school. The I.M. Pei. Head full of stress and counter-stress equations, ready to design the next great monument of technological wonder.

Think the firm’s senior partner comes to you and says “Hey, Umberto~we want you to cut your teeth on one of those new McDonald’s playland tubes. Get out there and make us proud”.

Exactly.

Which, especially at that moment when the whole tube began actually swaying in mid-air thanks to Pony-girl’s bucking, begged the question~who’s in charge of engineering and constructing these things?

And then it hit me.

Hamburgler.

Sure, he had his moment in the 80’s. But basically, he’s what~some kind of fast food convict, right?

Guy’s in prison stripes. On lifelong parole. They always say guys in the joint punch license plates in shop as part of their workday.

I’m pretty sure Hamburgler is sitting somewhere, cigarette hanging from his mouth putting together plastic tubes.

And as his little “middle finger” to the man, occasionally leaving out one or two of the hanging rings. So you know, it wobbles a bit more.

And every night Hamburgler goes to bed, he makes sure the lojack alarm-light on his ankle is green pulls the covers up to his chin and rests soundly knowing somewhere, in some McDonald’s Big Boy is suspended in mid-air, sweating like large fries in the salting rack.

Who Gets’s Coffee. And Who Fcuking Doesn’t.

Let’s get one thing straight. Just because coffee is available to everyone, doesn’t mean everyone should be drinking it.

Couple of ground rules.

Parents
They get a free pass. In fact, parents should get a lifetime-unlimited Starbucks card when they pick up their newborn.

Teachers
Since they make less than a Starbucks employee, they should never have to buy coffee again.

Okay, here we go.

The Haves
Lawyers. I want them doing my 40 minutes of work in 20 and billing me for 10. Not thrice versa.

Citibank Employees
If I have to stand in line once more for an hour while two cashiers spend twenty minutes talking about their cell phone bills then next time I go in I’m taking a hostage.

Cab Drivers
Tough call. I had to give it to ‘em though. You taken a taxi in NYC lately? The fare is like, $25 bucks a second or something. So yeah, the light turns green? You want these guys Nascar’ing over semi-trucks if possible to keep your five-block trip under a grand.

Ambulance Drivers
If I end up in the meat wagon I don’t want my driver “Braking For Small Animals”. I want him mowing down entire blocks of pedestrians to get me TO THE FCUKING EMERGENCY ROOM NOW.

The Have Not’s
My kids’ school bus driver. Think about it. Do you want the vehicular guardian of your little ones slugging back a triple shot vente, yelling “Buckle up kids~WE’RE GOING OFFROAD!”.

Cops
This is such a no-brainer. I for one, do not want a juiced, itchy trigger-finger, former Special Forces no-neck, screaming “INCOMING” and drawing down on me with a .38 when I reach past him at Dunkin Donuts for a packet of Splenda.

Subway Operators
C’mon~do you really want these guys hitting the corner at 60mph+ and whispering under their breath “I believe I can fly. I believe I can fly….”.

Korean Manicurists
These women already work by volume. If you’re not careful they can file a grown man down to his knuckles in under ten minutes. I say, chill out and if there’s sparks flying off their emery board it’s a sign they’re “juiced” in which case pick a god and pray cuz you’re gonna need a hook where your fire-engine red nails used to be.

Just a start. This list will be updated as soon as I finish my triple-shot vente extra hot cappuccino.

Codeine+Nymphomaniac(s)

Oh and the flu. Which explains the codeine-laced cough syrup.

And all of it, not in that exact order.

So in a flu-induced stupor I may have accidentially watched "Dancing With The Stars".

And I have a favorite.

Paul McCartney's one-legged ex-wife.

Yeah, I know. Bear with me.

So here's the thing. Metro-sexual, Iron John's, balanced w/our feminine~call it what you will but when beer comes to pizza, guys are just well, guys.

I have it from the most trusted sources in Gossipdom that Healther Mills is a certified cougar in the sack. Now, why am I unable to remember my wedding anniversary date, but have this useless factotum coded in to every firing synapse? See above.

So when she hits the floor, there is of course that guy-part of my brain that's secretly hoping the leg goes airborne during a spin and takes out rows 1-4 of the studio audience. Or second choice, that faux Italian/French gay judge.

And of course, evolved man that I am praying nightly for world peace, there is again, guy-brain that, I'm sorry who you are or what you've done but put a chick in front of me with snaggle-teeth, a bad 30's do and a peg-leg? Instinct kicks in and we must ridicule until said chick snaps and goes Carrie on National TV.

Unless of course, its rumored that Peg's a nympho. Which for some reason in Guy-lexicon rhymes with Mother Theresa. Say it slowly--"Nympho". "Mother Theresa". Trill your "R". No? Whatever.

Which explains that despite the fact HM won't last another round, or two tops--she's my new underdog.

Or as my wife said "Oh, cute. She's your underdog pick because she said "I just want some child at home to see me do this with my leg and say to themselves~I can do it too".

"You are such a dad".

To which I responded, "Yes".

But remember, somewhere deep in the heart of every dad past the pampers and the empty beer bottles~is a guy.

Another recent discovery of note:

No matter how high I turn up the blender Codeine will not froth enough to top my Cappucino.

So I'm just drizzling a nice little syrup-lattice of it over the foam.

Codeine's cool that way.

Surviving McDonald’s. Or Not…

…one of the last true guilty pleasures is the McDonald’s road-trip meal. It just doesn’t have that “Oh my god I’m eating dinner at McDonald’s” aftertaste to it.

So the family and I are cruising along in our rental car, taking a long weekend when just ahead on Interstate “Where The Hell Are We?”, the golden arches beckon.

In fact they glow. And they send out wave-lengths of French Fry goodness that bypass your normal synapse function with one overriding command, eerily Jedi-Knight in its directness: Go. There. Now.

So we pull in to the parking lot, jump out and my three-year-old daughter Ella leads the charge inside.

And hits paydirt.

Right there, in all its shiny, multicolored glory is a My Little Pony display. Comes in a happy meal. I’ve never ordered a happy meal. I am about to. Daughter and wife head off to find our own personal slab-of-molded-plastic family seating unit.

I stand in line innocently unaware of just how much suburban street-savvy it takes to successfully place an order at McD’s.

It goes something like this. A young-man in official uniform greets me with a worn, forced smile. He is slightly taller then an oversized fry. ‘Bout the weight of a nugget. He speaks in rapid-fire McDonaldese, and as this is suburbia, I am slightly unfamiliar with the dialect.

"WelcometoMcDonald’sSirmayItakeyourorder?"

"Um…let me have an ice coffee, and uh small French fries and oh, a happy meal".

I reach for my money, not knowing my close encounter has just begun.

"Burger or Nuggets sir?"

I look around, thinking he’s talking to someone else. Then, with all the seasoned calm of a hostage negotiator he again:

"With your happy meal sir, would you like a hamburger or Chicken McNuggets?"

He’s almost mouthing the words, like he’s dealing with Rain Man.

"Oh, um…Nuggets?"

I suddenly feel very self-aware and lapse in to giving answers inflected as questions like this three foot kid is my shrink and my task is to repeat back what I hear so I can give the impression of somehow being in control of my own life.

"Four or six piece sir?"

More questions. I feel my forehead moisten with a single, dead-giveaway bead of uncertainty.

I have no idea what he’s asking. I feel like I’m in a quiz-show on a different planet and the alien host is asking me “ARHII:” AAERR((!!”””GGZZZ!!??”.

I come up with the only thing I can muster resembling an answer.

"For the ponies?"

Nugget-boy shakes his head sadly, like the hostage just made a grab for his captor and detonated the bomb.

I am so fcuked.

"No, not the ponies sir. Ponies come in a single package. The Nuggets sir. Would you like a four-piece or a six-piece?"

This I can answer, and I feel a rush of confidence surge through me. But I play it cool, make sure and not rush the answer. I feel like I’ve been in line for five years.

"The four piece".

Behind me, a single line of very large, pale anxious people for whom McDonald’s means neither guilty nor pleasure, has formed. For them, there is only intense, ravenous hunger with a side of contempt for City slicker who doesn’t know his Nuggets from a Quarter Pounder.

One of them snorts. A few fidget. They are a herd about to panic and stampede. I must get my now “Less Than Happy” Meal and get out. How long can it take to jam some basically, uncooked fully processed food and a plastic toy in to a bag?

"Ranch, Zesty or Sweet&Sour?"

I know the answer isn’t “Ponies”, but fear has created some kind of survival by free association response in me. I heard once that ponies live on ranches. It’s not much to go on, but it’s all I have.

"I’ll have the Ranch".

I phrase it in first person to take some ownership of the situation. And I throw in the definate article because honestly, I have no idea what the three choices represent so just in case I am getting an actual working ranch I won’t look like a total idiot when they hand me an actual working ranch.

I have now lost complete track of time and like Rip Van Winkle may return to find my three year old is now at Vassar and no longer requires a My Little Pony.

Speaking of which…

"…and which color pony sir?:

Oh god.

"Oh, uh, they have colors?"

"Yes sir."

And sure enough, he tosses three small heat-sealed clear baggies on the counter.

Small heat-sealed baggies. I have a quick flashback. That’s another blog entry.

The baggies are small, and there’s so much print on them I can’t actually see inside to determine what the colors are. I’m staring at the baggies, mouthing air like a fish out of water.

…and before the herd can trample me, he comes to the rescue.

"…purple, blue or pink?".

"Pink!"

I accidentally shout this out. Its like I now have some kind of corporate-pressure induced Tourettes.

"That’s an iced coffee, small French fries, happy meal with four-piece nuggets, ranch dipping sauce and a pink pony.

"Anything else sir"?

Ranch~its a dipping sauce. I am relieved to find that out. It means I will not have to explain to my wife how I went to order a happy meal and ended up with 400 acres in Texas. My tongue feels very large in my mouth and I wonder if it might spill out if I try and answer.

"You’re going to call me “sir” even though I just ordered a pink pony?"

"Yes sir".

And as I walked back to my table, happy to see my daughter had not yet gone away to an all-girl’s college to have a tumultuous affair with her Women’s Study professor, but was in fact still a darling, pig-tailed three year old jumping up and down at the sight of her daddy returning with a happy meal, it hit me.

That’s why McDonald’s can systematically eradicate the bovine population, super-size us to the point of extinction, coat us in enough ranch sauce to drown a grown man and we still go back.

Because no matter who you are~crack mom, Jeffery Dahmer, Citicorp VP, or dad on a happy-meal-mission, once you have your pink pony in hand~they still call you sir.

Niiiice.