Although I lunched on some fine Middle Eastern cuisine yesterday, gentle reader, many of my co-workers succumbed to the Super Siren song of $0.39 hamburgers at McDonald’s. Whoever concocted this promotion probably relished the thought of having droves of people pander for cheap processed meat, and true to form the office purchased enough beef to pantomime six herds of cattle. One co-worker walked in with no less than seven burgers, an amount my brain simply cannot compute.
I’m a seasoned culinary critic, so I knew in an arrhythmic heartbeat that these $0.39 treats would probably cause the million-dollar shits. By golly was I right. The “Chicken Select” meal I consumed on Tuesday, however, told a different story. These chicken tenders sat well with me, which came as a welcome surprise, and they also allowed me to spend almost seven dollars at McDonald’s. That may not seem like a large amount, but in the world of fast food it’s a king’s ransom.
But it was worth it, I tell you. As one co-worker postulates, those other chickens from KFC farms have their eyes firmly embedded way in the back, right next to the third and fifth legs. If that doesn’t make you go vegetarian, I don’t know what will. Ronald’s chickens? They’re different. They’ve got their eyes firmly planted where they should be, right next to beak #3. Since these are the select chickens, they’re the cream of the crop, the flea’s knees, the rhino’s toes.
That’s my unreserved praise for Chicken Select Strips. Make sure to get the Spicy Buffalo Sauce, which I’m told is made from real spicy buffaloes.
Sometime last week Muse and I visited our publisher and were dismayed to find that she had changed. Madame Blogger, who up until this point had been rough around the edges but pleasant, flounced down the hall with an utterly ghastly makeover.
“What the f–” started Muse before I shushed her.
“Shhhh! We don’t want to piss her off, not yet at least.”
Madame had clearly suffered some kind of horrible shock because she sashayed into the room, with little shame and with even less taste, wearing a checkered gingham gown and a terrifying wig.
“Like my grandmother caught in a blender,” Muse whispered to me before I gave her the evil eye.
Muse had a point, though. As far as her hair was concerned, Madame Blogger looked like Peggy Bundy beaten over the head with a vat of Crisco. Her whole presentation suggested a person trying–and miserably failing–to be perfect and inviting
“Hel-lo, my dear boy!” hailed the Madame cheerily. “What can I do for you today?”
“Oh, we just came by to see how you were doing,” I replied. “And it looks like you’re doing…well.”
“That’s grand, that’s grand,” she sighed airily, fluffing her wig. “Notice anything different?”
I pretended to look searchingly at her for a few moments, when in fact I was looking at the fissure in the wall behind her.
“You got a makeover!” I exclaimed.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t notice, dear,” she chuckled contentedly. “My stylist said I should be more user-friendly, more WYSIWYG. It’s all the rage.”
“Wizzy what?” I blurted out.
“WYSIWYG. You know, ‘What you see is what you get.'”
The Madame turned to Muse.
“And you, my dear! Why did you come along?”
“Well,” Muse began, “we were just about to–“
“That’s nice. Now let’s get down to business.”
They never did get along, Muse and Madame Blogger.
“So you’re probably here to publish,” Madame said to me. “Anything else? Perhaps I could get you some coffee?”
“No thanks, we just had dinner,” interjected Muse.
“I didn’t ask you,” Madame Blogger shot back icily.
The room suddenly filled with New York tension in a New York minute. Madame turned to me again.
“If not coffee, then perhaps some scones made from free-range wheat? How about a backrub? Imported chocolates? A sponge bath, maybe?”
Muse’s mouth hung agape, as did mine.
“No, I think I’m fi–” I began.
“–a foot massage? No? Then allow me to wipe your nose,” Madame concluded slavishly.
“No! No, no, no!” shouted Muse.
“I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to him,” Madame Blogger said. “If not your nose, then at least your ass.”
Muse grabbed my arm and stormed out the door, turning around to shout at the sycophantic Madame, “We’ll manage just fine, thanks. Maybe you should take your WYSIWYG off. Bitch.”
It’s my contention that Blogger will evolve into a bright red button in a few months’ time. Press the button and shazaam! It will create a post for you, all the while spewing milk and cookies out of your disk drive.
Dear Muse,
I can’t help but sense a general boredom in the skyscraper. It used to be different, you know, and I would come to the office with a song in my heart and a really, really big gun in my pocket. Those were the days. In recent times, however, things have changed. A pastel-colored malaise has settled over everything, and I’m having a helluva time looking for the cure.
What should I do? Where are you? Do you want to go on vacation?
Please advise,
-C