McHatin' It

I know I still owe you a blog post concluding my Heston Family Ohio Adventure, and it's coming, really it is... but for now, I'd like to talk about the poisoned pleasure that is MacDonald's (and... as an added bonus, it ties into the Dave Matthews at the Gorge story).

MacDonald's.

It.

Is.

So.

Good.

Seriously, I could eat it every day. And what's worse is that I am totally one of those judgemental people that arrogantly shoves my nose in the air when people talk about how it's the "only" cheap option for lunch. Or how MacDonald's really does have healthy options. Or how eating it a few times a year is acceptable.

In fact... as I go through that list of reasons people use to validate eating burger poison, I can picture my father's disbelieving face and bugging eyes as I told him I FEASTED on a Sausage and Egg McMuffin meal on my way home from the Gorge. His look was one of sheer amazement and disgust that his third born had consumed one AND A HALF Sausage and Egg McMuffins, hash browns, and coffee in one MacDonald's sitting.

And really, it has to be said that I MEANT to order the Sausage and Egg Biscuit. I love myself a biscuit, truly.

Side note: MacDonald's is hands down (make that hands, feet, and face down) THE BEST temporary cure for a hang over.

And I say temporary because approximately six minutes after I finish eating it I feel like my asshole has turned into an Alaskan geyser ready to dispel excess waste from my "lower earth."

Honestly people, if McDonald's had a love language, it would be insurmountable. Unfortunately, it's a hate message. To my stomach. A hate message to my stomach that causes a cold sweat and bent-over-at-the-waste cramping.

So let's re-cap my typical McDonald's experience:

1. Walk into MacDonald's knowing exactly what I'm going to order.

2. Order a Sausage and Egg Biscuit from what is probably an under paid, under insured, under educated individual while rapidly bouncing my debit card on the counter because I'm SO EXCITED for what is about to come from the magical land that is a MacDonald's kitchen.

3. Wait with baited breath for my number to come up.

4. Sit down with my food... eat it in approximately six minutes (maybe less).

5. Enjoy five minutes and 45 seconds of sheer stomach bliss.

6. Walk out of MacDonald's sweating and doubled over, complaining of cramping and exploding geysers.

I would say I average about 5 meals a year at MacDonald's... maybe less. But the temptation grows people... because I've had to change my route to work as there is massive construction on the corner of Denny and Queen Anne Avenue.

So how do I go now? Oh yes... I go Mercer to 5th Avenue... right by a new MacDonald's WITH AN ELECTRONIC BULLETIN BOARD THAT READS DAILY "SPECIALS" IN RED NEON.

Yesterday the special was warm, gooey, take-three-months-off-your-life, cinnamon buns.

Did I consider it?

DAMN STRAIGHT.

Did I go through the drive through?

NO.

Haha. You totally thought I was going to say yes. And really, I'm so glad I can say no. Because news of me going through the drive through at MacDonald's to buy a cinnamon bun would give my father a heart attack quicker than him eating the cinnamon bun itself. And that's saying something... because those cinnamon buns clog arteries quicker than wax hardens.

But the truth of the matter is that I wanted to. I wanted to go through the drive through. That's the hold MacDonald's has on me. Am I lovin' it? Hell no... (but oh my gosh, yes).

It's a love/hate thing.