McDonalds, the fabric of America.

The old school McGangBang

The old school McGangBang

I recently saw McDonald’s reviews on Yelp.

First of all, McDonalds is not a restaurant. For it to be a restaurant it must serve food, and while I do not know what is in a chicken nugget, I sure as fuck know it isn’t chicken. I’ve had chicken before, nice try McDonald’s.

These are actual reviews:

“I saw a lady in her pajamas, wearing snorkeling goggles, and holding a small child sized doll. I didn’t know what to make of it.” – Denis, Pasadena CA

“Sausage McMuffin was disappointing. It could very well be that my eating standards have gotten more frou frou. But I think I could have made a better breakfast sandwich than this if I had the time.” -Jon, Bellevue WA

” I rather be here than some suburban boring restaurant where my life passes me by and don’t feel a bit alive.” -Jaime, Azusa CA

“When being told to meet at “the sketchy ass McDonald’s” is all that’s needed to establish location it might speak poorly of your business reputation.” -Sal, Seattle WA

The words: rape, lunatic, lockdown, and save yourself, were a frequent theme in the reviews.

Stop blaming rap music, meth, and liberals for America’s decline. THIS is what’s wrong. Some reviewers encourage people to walk to another McDonalds a few blocks away for, and I fucking quote, “quality industrial chicken sandwich or hamburger”. Chances are that if you are at a McDonalds, you are not a fan of walking, or quality.


Valentine’s Day Part 1: The Blind Date Game Show

datingFor Valentine’s Day I participated in a blind date game show at a comedy club in which I ask questions to three bachelors hidden behind a curtain and I have to pick one of them for a date based on the answers. But surprise, surprise. All of the bachelors competing for my hand were unacceptable. First one is (legally) retarded, second one has a Bachelor of Science in Douchebaggery with a minor in misogyny studies, and the last one had a GREAT personality- just wonderful.

By the way, it took me more than 10 minutes to figure out the retarded guy was retarded. But he might not be. I am just going to list the facts below and you be the judge of whether he is or not:

  • He has a large necklace like Flava Flav but instead of a clock it has an oversized letter. 
  • He introduces himself and tells me his necklace weights 5 pounds. Walks away.
  • The other comedians think he is retarded. (But none of them is a doctor.)
  • His proficiency in ebonics is noteworthy. He is white, 850 pounds lighter than me, and 12,000 feet shorter than me.
  • Every time he approached me (no less than 5x) he addressed me by my name. (I’m always impressed by anyone that can remember the names of people they just met.)
  • During the show the says hi to his friends in the audience. They look like they just got out of jail for doing something stupid, like selling meth on Etsy.

After the show someone had the fantastic idea to ditch the comedy club and head to a nightclub in downtown Seattle, no more than 20 minutes away. By then I had beer, whiskey, fruity crap, and holy water in my system. Basically: I am down to rob a 7-eleven or feed the homeless, I dongiveafack.

Before I leave I ask the waiter for a shot.
Me: “any kind, I trust you man”.
He brings me a Kamikaze.
Me: “I thought you were legit, man”
Him: “It’s good, it’s extra strong”
Me: “If it was it would be called Little Boy”
Him: “I don’t get it.”
Me: (to myself) “I don’t expect you to”

I take the shot and just as suspected it tastes like sprite without effervescence.

Me: “Since you don’t have “Little Boy”, I’ll take a Jack Daniels, same thing”

My designated driver, Jake,  is one of the comedians that performed that evening. He drives a windowless rape van with a software company logo on its side. I know it’s bullshit because he told me earlier what he does for a living and it has nothing to do with computers. I start laughing hysterically. You can’t rape the willing so I jump in.

Up until two months ago I lived in Las Vegas, this is my first time going to a nightclub in Seattle. I shouldn’t have assumed it was a joke when Jake said “this place is a ghetto meat-slapping festival” (as if there is an upscale version of that) because that is exactly what this place was. Fights break out in every establishment, but it takes a certain type of dump to have their dancers and bartenders partake on it. When your  immature drunk patrons are the ones settling disputes between your staff members, you know you run a gigantic shithole.

After the longest 37 minutes of my life Jake and I head out. He takes me back to my car and I am mildly disappointed that the van was just for show.

(to be continued…)