I’d write this: We’re both past 60 now, and yet you’ve managed to keep your same shape: round on the outside, square in between. I’m just getting rounder. Some might see you only as an Alaskan Pollack slab plopped onto a bun steamed for exactly 11 seconds, the only McDonalds item served that way, but not me. You’re the Saturday afternoon lunch of my childhood, sandwiched between Creature Feature and the Game of the Week. Tartar sauce would ooze down my wrist, but why only a half slice of cheese? As we grew, you released mascots, maybe to promote your own self-esteem or public awareness that McDonalds served options to the Big Mac. Sure, the Big Mac grabbed headlines, and had that catchy jingle – you know, two all-beef patties, special sauce and all that, but you had mascots. Yet I’ll never know why anyone thought Captain Crook, whose goal in life was to steal you, was a good idea, or Phil-A.-O-Fish, who only lasted a year before vanishing, customers confused about a fish promoting consumption of its own species. Couldn’t you have done better? I could have too, I guess. As I pull from the drive-thru, I think about the time we’ve spent together, but worry how little we have left.
Bubblepunk