The family finally succumbed to cabin fever. It’s been a strange 72 hours in Dallas, suggesting the smartest among us stay indoors and avoid our annual ice storm for the sake of safety. Still, my wife is a businesswoman, and business must go on.
For me, it’s been perfect. I managed to write over 100,000 words in the month of January, including two twisted short stories for upcoming anthologies. I rarely leave the house when it’s sunny and warm unless I’m scheduled for the steam locomotive crew. A writer writes. I’m just making up for lost time since the release of my Starving Zoe novella two years ago.
We braved the ice and ventured into the frozen North Texas wasteland. The roads were already cleared for the most part thanks to the thousands of fearless idiots who came before us. A little bit of muddy slush never killed anyone except for fish living in the runoff canals, wildlife, and the future generations of humans whose parents drink from the local water supply. Basically everything on the planet.
Unfortunately for the picky among my family, many of the restaurants were closed. At least the ones who care about the well-being of their employees. My wife also suffers from Celiac, meaning our choices were extremely limited to begin with. Gluck Futen is what we’re calling our restaurant if I can ever get one of my books to be a best seller. Lucky for her, she has a tiny refrigerator in her office full of safe food. As for me and my young son? McDonald’s.
I never was a huge fan of Mickey D’s, even as a young child. My son can’t get enough of it because it’s one of the few fast-food places he knows. It must be horrible having a biological father with access to seemingly endless amounts of money who chooses to eat McDonald’s and Taco Bell for every meal. Is there any chance we can begin this inevitable class war sooner? There’s just some people in this world who could use a good slap in the face for living like they do. We poor folk cook, and thank goodness for that. Meal times are special to me and mine, and exhibit a love greater than any physical possession gifted by a wealthy poon.
I swallowed a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese for the first time in years. Currently, it is sitting in the pit of my belly like a greased hockey puck imprisoned in a faulty freezer. This immediately triggered my posterior into evacuating every bit of previously healthy digestion into the porcelain shield provided by my wife’s office bathroom. The accompanying symphony of toots and barks escaped the poorly constructed doorway, echoing down a hallway full of surprised ears. Everybody farts, I’m sure, just not in the capacity of a John Williams fanfare.
I ate McNuggets as a child since you can easily mask their lack of flavor with dipping sauces. I also ate my weight in Spicy McChickens during my stoner days as well. As is a typical misfortune within my world, I discovered I’m allergic to poultry this year, meaning I’ve been poisoning myself for the last four and a half decades. Yes, we all know McDonald’s peddles fake chicken, but why risk it?
I can’t help but feel this impromptu meal robbed a week from my remaining life bank. To boot, I’m certain her workers will forever refer to me as Farty McFarterson or some other humorous, childish nickname proclaiming how my ass could use a good tuning. After all, it already has a crack right down the middle of it.
Did I mention that the cheese looked painted on and the onions were chopped to the consistency of apple slices? Dear world, please stop sustaining this carnivorous death trap. Go to Jack In The Box instead. At least they have curly fries. My future ass thanks you all.
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