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Why I Eat McDonald's
We all have reasons why we do the things we do, often tying excuses like convenience or finances to justify specific actions. Digging deep within, we may find there is a more sinister force at work.
Cleaning up the dining room after breakfast, I realized my wife had scarcely touched her single McDonald's hash brown. A little nibble if you will, as a mouse engaging in a midnight feeding. Instead of throwing out 25 cents worth of slimy spuds, my thoughts turned quickly to our son who loves hash browns. Attempting to pull the cold, greasy potato wedge from it's paper jacket, I discovered this was not about to happen easily. I was now engaged in a man versus food tug-of-war with this succulent malady of the dollar breakfast menu. A bead of sweat and a few choice words later, I emerged the victor! Or was I?
I thought about this greasy goodness and why I was eating, let alone saving, a food that was not only pre-cooked in a deep fryer, or warmed in a microwave, but then to bring it home and put it into the toaster oven just to make it edible? Herein lies my tail:
The McDonald's Hash Brown
At promptly 10:27 PM and 43 seconds, on the evening of Tuesday, August 5th, 2014, our youngest son came knocking on the door of our upstairs bedroom. It was one of those moments that parents become too familiar with: 1) distressing news is about to be revealed, or 2) some sort of extortion is about to go down. His sheepish look and account of the problems coming from the downstairs bathroom, I really wished that this had been number 2, not really number 2.
Immediately my wife points to me, both of us comfortably snuggled in bed, saying "This is your department."
Crawling out of my near slumber, I am thinking a quick plunge and we're in business. As I descended the stairs, my son in tow, I asked him if there was water on the floor. His reply, "just a little, but not much," typical kid response. I'm thinking we may have dodged a bullet this time. Fond memories came flooding back of the last time this happened, just 10 days after moving into our luxurious new rental some 15 months ago. That incident had such catastrophic events, it made the Florida Everglades look like grandmas backyard after a water balloon fight.
Entering the scene, I scanned quickly for any destruction, and to my relief the room was mostly barren, with one exception. A single corner of the bathroom rug had absorbed all moisture on the floor. (Side-note: this, in my opinion, is the only thing a bathroom rug is good for, ewww). Although the rug was wet, the porcelain shrine was empty; it seemed the problem had fixed itself. One test flush and I would be on my way to a quick shower and back to bed.
Although the lever was only actuated once, the walls of the great throne would soon be breached. A mad tempest was upon us. Plunger in hand, I vowed to save the day, fighting back the demons which were threatening to escape their confines. Despite my heroic attempt, it was not enough, as the waters oozed across the bathroom floor, taking aim directly now for my socked feet and the carpeted hallway beyond. Luckily I was quick on the draw, all efforts now in vain, there was still a chance to save the rest of the house. With my trusty towels of absorption, we fought back the ghastly assailants, holding them at bay just long enough for the waters to again recede.
Trusty Towels (the real heroes are under witness protection)
AHA! Gotcha I thought, this was now nearly over. After rescuing the maidens stranded on linoleum island, I then carried the befouled rug to sickbay, to be cleansed of all impurities. Tearing back the curtain to the decontamination tank, to my horror I saw the bathtub was full of dirty water. This was turning into a horror film and I was the befuddled star weather I liked it or not. Finding a temporary place for the rug, I clambored upstairs to warn my wife not to run anymore water. As I breached the top of the stairs, I could hear the familiar woosh, gurgle, plop in the distance.
Laying eyes on my wife, casually coming out of the upstairs bathroom, I tell her not to use any water, hand-washing, flushing, etc until further notice. But it was too late, the damage had been done. Expectantly, I rush downstairs to see my trusty towels of absorption once again going to work, holding back the flowing tides until the waters calmed from their boiling over point. In short, this was a crappy night.
So here is why I eat McDonald's: when in times of crisis, and the going gets tough, the golden arches will open their doors to you (but only during business hours), as they did for my wife and I this morning. The plumber could not come early enough so we had to make a beeline upon awakening to the nearest 'full service' facility around. After all, who can resist greasy, heart-stopping goodness, after taking a load off? I challenge you to do the same.