By no means would I call myself a “gourmet.” Maybe a “gourmand,” but I’m not really even sure about that. Whatever the label you want to call me, I guess the truth is that I do like to eat food with my mouth.
That’s why I decided to take a jaunt over this restaurant in my town called “McDonald’s.” I’d not had Scottish food in a long time so I figured I’d give it a go. I had read about them hiring this new fry cook — I think it was some kind of felon work-release program — and naming a new combo meal after him…the “McMoron.” Details were scant on what this new meal consisted of, so I trotted down to the restaurant to see what I could find out.
The first day I went, it turned out the joint was actually closed to the public. It was just the elderly fry cook, who was blathering on about thinking he was supposed to scoop the fries with his hands, and a few dozen people who seemed to really, really, really, really like him. I was told I couldn’t get the McMoron that day, because the moron behind the McMoron was too scared to take orders from real customers who might not think his dong tastes like the ice cream their broken machine refused to serve.
I waited a day, and then I went back.
I sauntered up the counter, and tried to get a look at their new fry cook. But the kind young lady working the register told me that he doesn’t actually work there; he just pretends to work there, which she said wasn’t anything new for him. That’s what he has done in every “job” he’s ever had…or rather pretended to have. Disappointed but undaunted by the fact that I would not be meeting the doddering old fry cook (who honestly gave me a bit of a rapey vibe in the interviews I’d seen him do), I went ahead and ordered his signature combo meal — the McMoron.
Five minutes or less later, my order number was called. I walked up to the counter to retrieve my meal, but imagine my surprise when I arrived to find an empty tray.
“Excuse me, but where’s my order,” I asked the nice young lady.
She pointed to the tray, the empty one, and told me it was right there, in front of me.
“But, um, there’s nothing on the tray. Literally nothing. This tray? It has the complete absence of food upon it, my friend,” I reasoned with her.
This elicited a laugh from the young lady.
“Yes, exactly. The McMoron is a combo meal inspired by a moron who makes big promises, but never, ever delivers on them,” she explained to me.
But I had just handed over $15.89 for the combo, I told her. Was I really going to get nothing in return for the money I spent?
“Just be glad you didn’t get the limited edition NFT for an extra $500, sir,” she told me. “Some people get really mad when they upgrade to the version of the combo that comes with gold plated shoes, and instead they get flip flops spray painted gold by one of the McMoron’s sons.”
Confused, but unwilling to keep discussing the matter any further, I thanked the young cashier for her time, and went home. Oddly enough, I didn’t eat anything but still ended up some of the worst diarrhea in my life. My doctor told me it’s because being exposed to certain people, even through talking about them, is enough to make our bodies go into shock and start spewing the same kinds of shit he does.
You really do learn something new every day.
Got twenty minutes? Spend it with me and my friends.
