So in the continuing saga of me pretending I'm a character in a Douglas Coupland novel, here is my latest entry. The next challenge in the book that the coworkers set for themselves is to write a personal ad to Ronald McDonald. Creepy? Yes. Alarming? Even moreso. Possible fodder for hilarity? We'll see.
Ronald, I'm the man for you -- not because I'm willing to forgo my attachment to heterosexuality and overcome my terror of a clown in erotic repose in my bed -- no, I'm the man for you because of my undying devotion to you and your cow-packaging empire.
Sure, you had your legions of multi-billion dollar ad agencies feed my mythology starved childhood with images of a Burger Kingdom with semi-sentient, glass wearing fries and an endearing break-and-enter specialist who could think of no better use of his nefarious talents than to steal goddamn burgers of all things. But let it be known, that I embraced said brainwa-- I mean indoctrination, wholeheartedly.
I've been a Mcdonald's acolyte ever since I could voice my preference for where to eat; it was never Burger King (even though I suspected that they might be better, and be serving something that was actually food, and not just 'food' in the strictly legal sense), and not even Chuck E Cheeze (that terror house of animatronics), always the Golden Arches. That abode for a clown who had no circus to perform in, no bar mitzvahs to create complex ballooon animals which all looked alarmingly like a weiner dogs. You were my first and only choice.
I've never waivered, never faltered. I won't leave you like that goddamn moon-faced drifter Mac Tonight (where is he now, with his promise of late night trysts and badly covered jazz standards?). Loyalty ranks high on my list. Even after I found out that the puke inducing slime that covered the mandibles of the Alien in the eponymous movie was in fact your milkshake thickener, I did not waver. Nay, my love for all things semi-edible, with a beef-like scent and packaged in Golden Arches packaging seemed to only increase as I grew older.
And then there was you. The omni-present, ever smiling, ever genial, proto-Michael Jackson with more wholesome pedophilic tendencies (who has their likeness turned into a statue that sits on a park bench for crying out loud? crreeeepy). Your disturbing nature was counteracted by your Hanna Barberra like universe you inhabited, and your lucrative Disney tie-ins which had me slavering in consumerist-diabetic shock for the latest hyper-carcinogenic plastic bauble featering what's-his-face and who's-its-name.
There's something comforting about your easy going nature and the simplicity in your demands (eat Mcdonalds, only Mcdonalds). I feel drawn to having a romantic relationship with you as a dyed in the wool card carrying Communist might want to have a roll in the hay with Lenin, or Marx (no, not Richard Marx, God never intended for hair to be that feathered).
Who would form a solid, albeit strained (remember the whole hetero and Terror Of Erotic Clowns thing I'm dealing with) pair bond with you? A bunch of narcisstic smarmy assed, game-designer blowhards who have the emotional intelligence of a poorly made Czech sex doll; or me? Your ever devoted, brainwashed devotee of 31 years?
I'd think the choice is obvious.