7 stories in 7 days: mcflurry

October 18, 2012

...You guys totally thought I was going to skeeze out on story day four didn't you? WRONG. You couldn't even BE more wrong. Here I am! You can't stop this train, even if it arrives at the station at bizarre off-peak reading times like your friend's brother who shows up to your cookout two hours too late when you've already cleared the buffet. It's true, I am that brother and the potatoes are cold. Now let's talk about McFlurries.

Here's the thing: I'm not entirely sure that McFlurries aren't made out of some highly processed plastic chemical that gives you elbow cancer – BUT THAT DOESN'T STOP ME FROM LIKING THEM. Even as I'm eating one I'm all, "This isn't even like ice cream at all! Mmmmmm, poison!" but I just keep on shoveling it into my mouth like a dog with a bitter hatred for balloons.

McFlurries (and let's be specific here: I prefer the Oreo variety) taste like magic, and this is a fact that I won't hear argued in my presence. I'll go to blows over it so either walk away now or take off your watch. Whether or not they're filled with metal shavings and fetal equine steroids, well, that's something we can discuss at length over EVEN MORE MCFLURRIES. Let's go!

I don't eat them more than a few times a year so you know, what the hell. The odds that two yearly McFlurries are going to kill me dead are probably at least 1:463 and that's a bet I'd willingly take if I were a betting man with money and a penis instead of a vagina.

One time after a particularly difficult day I hit up the drive-thru on my way home and asked for my old friend McFlurry, gurrrrrl you know I did, and I drove in part of a circle and paid my money and waited behind a car full of fifteen teenagers in the glowing lights of the Original Poison Factory. Red and yellow are not my best colors.

Idly dreaming about the togetherness that was soon to be my mouth meeting a creamy treat I squeezed my thighs together and watched an old man walking next to a pile of trash. It was a blissful moment of anticipation born of true love, there could have been other people in the car at the time but they weren't there, really, it was just me and my McFlurry dream. I pulled up to the final window where my beloved and I would soon be united as one; a woman and her well-deserved chemical gloop

The cashier abruptly slammed open the glass. "HERE!" she shrieked, and thrust a sloppy dripping cup into my outstretched hand. Inside was a gently curled turd of white chemically castrated ice cream with half a smashed Oreo cookie laying across the top just so, artfully placed to give the impression of most dont-give-a-crappedness.

There was no mixing. There was no crumbling. There was no flurrieinginging.

"What. Is. This." I managed to fit out of my mouth between the cracks in my violently clenching teeth.

"Oh yeah, the machine is like, broken or something," she shrugged, apathetic to my confusion and quite possibly disproportionate rising anger. I thrust my arm back out of the window, pointing aggressively into the cup at the polar dook.

"...And you didn't think to tell me that BEFORE I ORDERED?"

"Yeeeeaah, I can't do anything about that," she blinked several times and stared at me, and then shrugged again and turned to walk away from the window. I paused for a second as my face formed into a blank mask of rage, or so I hear because I have only the vaguest recollection of what happened next during my epic rage stroke.

Without further ado I drew back my arm, took a deep breath and yelled, "WELL THAT'S UNFORTUNATE." and threw the McFlurry back into the window.

I have a poor record of interactions with customer service representatives. If the former anecdote wasn't a clear enough neon sign lighting up "YES! YES SHE DOES!" I also once got someone at a different McDonalds fired for giving me the finger. And no, I didn't give it to him first though if I had a time machine I would, right after I went back and killed the McFlurry woman with one of those square shaped plastic spoons because that shit was UNACCEPTABLE.
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