RESISTANCE IS A SIDE OF FRIES

Something occurred to me the other day as I rolled into the drive-thru of the local McDonald’s. Is McDonald’s an intricate cover for a sinister alien agenda? Was Ray Kroc a pawn for an evil alien race that plots our very destruction? Or is he the head extra-terrestrial in charge? I not only think so, I know so. These covert cocksuckers plan not only to fatten us for the slaughter, but drive us insane as well. The evidence is obvious. Why the fuck would anyone need a half gallon of cola? What happened to medium size? Ask for a small drink and you get a Dixie cup. How many potatoes have to die to fill the Super Size order of fries? Why does a Big Mac cost $3.49, and a double cheeseburger $.99? Why aren’t the employees trained in basic water displacement physics, so that when I insert the straw into my gargantuan cola, it won’t spill all over me and the interior of my car? And I rarely get more than two napkins to mop up the mess. Why is the Filet-O-Fish served with just half a piece of cheese, when they seem so frivolous with the cola and fries? How is it not possible to center the burger and condiments within the parameters of the bun when so tiny a piece of meat is offered? Why are the shakes impossible to consume? I nearly caved in my skull trying to create a strong enough vacuum to get the frosty beverage through the straw. Do they brew the coffee in a nuclear reactor? Do they giggle in their sleep at the thought of third degree burns and festering pus? Well the jig is up, motherfucker. Funk knows your secret, and I’m telling the world. You can’t take us out like that. We will not be your butt monkeys any longer. Can you smell what the funk is cookin’? It’s a super-sized can of whoop-ass just for you. Go pick on the chimps and mullet-wearing rednecks that couldn’t make it over the evolutionary hump. To my readers: If I should suddenly disappear from the face of the Earth, carry on, my wayward sons of the resistance. Carry on!