Degenerate Nation

The following Degenerate Diary was composed on July 2, 2009, at a McDonalds in Tysons Corner, VA.   It was not edited for content.  This is all real.  All raw.  All live.  This is… DEGENERATE DIARY. 

 5:57 pm:    Just got my food.  Time to rock this motherfucker!

                       The fries are hot and crisp!  There are fake potted plants all around me!  My Coke is the size of my head! 

                       I WILL NOT REGRET THIS!!! 

6:01 pm:     My quarter pounder with cheese is half-consumed.

                      Where do they get those pickles from?  So thin.  So delicious.  So unique.  They must fly them in from Indonesia.  They are hand-sliced by pre-pubsecent Indonesian boys, with tiny fingers.   And they pay them with out-dated, pre-Millenial Happy Meal toys.  Thanks for slicing my pickles, kid.  Here’s Iago, the annoying fucking parrot from Aladdin!  But, you won’t have any time to play with him, because you’re slicing my tiny pickles, 20 hours a day.  GLOBALIZATION, BITCHES!!!

6:08 pm:      My burger is gone now.  I miss it.

                        I love McDonalds.  Best Idea Ever!  I AM DESTROYING THESE FRIES!!! 

                        Ray Crock is a fucking genius!  I wonder if he had a ginger brother with large feet and an unhealthy appreciation for children?  So, instead of cutting him into the burgeoning McDonalds empire, he created Ronald as a tribute to his clownish ginger existence?  I will Wiki that shit!  But not till I finish these fries.  Yum Yum Yum.  Golden browns spears of nourishment.  You are the salted elixir of life!  Holy Hamburglar, this is better than sex!  FRIES IN MY MOUTH!!!  

6:16 pm:       The golden arches kind of look like boobs.  Big, pointy 80’s boobs.  Which means that 80’s boobs live on, in eleventy billion countries, worldwide.  EAT OUR CULTURE, WORLD!!!

6:20 pm:      I don’t feel so good.  Are you supposed to feel your internal organs when you eat?  Probably not. 

                        I think my intestines are telling my kidneys to go on strike.

                        Is this how fat people feel?  I’m exhausted.  I’m struggling to remember what it feels like to have run a mile.  Ever.  In my life. 

                        I should have driven here.  My office is like two blocks away.  Too far.

                        I feel the need to breathe through my mouth AND my nose, simultaneously.  My body hates me.  I’m taking the elevator to my office.  I work on the 2nd floor.  But I am taking the god damn  elevator.

6:25 pm:     I want to burp, but my body won’t cooperate.

                       This little girl is here on her birthday.  I want to save her.  Her parents are slowly destroying her by keeping her here.  She’s young.  And innocent.  And, most importantly, not fat.  

                      YOU CAN STILL SAVE HER!!!  

6:29 pm:      I kind of want some chicken nuggets.  This place is evil.

6:31 pm:      This Coke is so large, I’m tapping my feet like god damn Gregory Hines on blow. 

6:33 pm:      Remember those commericals with Jordan and Bird, playing hoops?  That was genius.

                        I want an apple pie now.  And a fish sandwich.  With the tartar sauce that looks like cum.  And a Shamrock Shake!  Why don’t they have those all year round?  They would sell like hot cakes.  Oh man, I want those now, too.  Neatly packaged in their animal-snuffing styrofoam that will survive a nuclear holocaust.

                        I am still breathing abnormally, but strangely don’t want to leave.  How much does a McFlurry cost?  I’d turn around and look at the massive menu board, but that requires movement.  I might cramp up.  BAH-BAH-BAH, BAH-BAH!  I’M LOVING IT!!!

6:37 pm:       I have to poop.