So the other day I was posted up at the McDonalds across the street from Disneyland looking to get in on something super salty. The fries were all hanging out in their little warming hut, just mocking me. I could tell they were saying things, like this one, it was one of those that get crinkly and a little brown, but you know it tastes better than the golden ones. “Look at that guy over there, he’s hungry, that’s for sure…but he ain’t getting me. Guys got to know that I don’t give up that easy. When metal spoon-shovel barges down into here I am going to flop right out. Because of my crinkly nature, I can bend more than the rest of you, hang in positions a fry is never meant to hang. Ballin!”
That’s when I locked in on him; a brown among goldies. Uncontrollably, I hummed the McDonalds, “baa dop bop bop baa”. I approached the counter, knowing full well what I needed to do. “Can I get a large French fry?” The brown fry went wild! He knew that the amount of fries needed to fill a large carton would not amass to enough to include him in the scooping area. He was just outside of large range. Showing confidence rarely seen in a fry, he even moved a little closer to the edge, just to rub it in. “Wait, can I make that a super size?” The scream was at such a high frequency that only neighborhood dogs could hear it. The brown fry was shrieking as he couldn’t move himself fast enough away from the danger zone. Death would soon befall this little jerk and I needed to prepare. A table with a view was what I wanted. I wanted to look out the window at the park while I consumed my salty treat. I threw my sweatshirt on the back of the chair to reserve my spot and then came back to grab my fries.
There he was, hanging out of the corner of the carton, half way in, half way out. Not wanting to see his fate first hand, he had crinkled the very top of his physique, which could only be his head, into a hooked-cane shape. But he couldn’t cover his ears, friends, it wasn’t going to be that easy. The most dreaded sound after initial selection to any fry, is the deafening, throbbing thud of the ketchup pump. I sat my tray beneath the pump and went to town. I pumped that pump like I was trying to fill up a pool toy on a hot day. The ketchup flowed like prescription drugs at Neverland Ranch; big globs of thick red joy poured onto my tray. Time to get down to business.
I set the tray on my reserved table and positioned my self as comfortably as possible on the hard plastic bench. Starring down at the fries, I noticed the brown fry was no longer crinkled up cane-style. He was now as straight as an arrow. Apparently, sometime during the pumping of the condiment, he realized his fate was sealed, and taking it like a man-fry would be the only honorable thing to do. Either that or he was scared stiff. Didn’t matter to me, I was hungry and he was food.
Man those fries were good!