Gratitude: The McDonald's breakfast

Appreciating one of the last vestiges of the American Dream.

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A lot of suburbanites will never understand this, but it’s actually pleasurable for a morning commute to be walking-distance. When I was living in Toronto, my apartment was a half-hour stroll from the job factory, so when the sunny skies presented a golden opportunity, I’d roll into the golden arches to snag my trademark McDonald’s breakfast order and eat it on the go, almost like a cardiovascular form of carbon neutrality to offset the absolute mayhem I’d unleash onto my arteries. Now, I understand that it’s very off-brand of this newsletter to camp for a soulless multi-national corporation—especially one with the unmitigated gall and temerity to charge $15 for a Big Mac meal—but the McDonald’s breakfast remains undefeated, even if what now constitutes as a McValue is just what it used to cost before COVID.

There are many ways to indulge in a morning McDick’s run, but after many years and iterations, I’ve tinkered my way to the ideal greasebag delight: The Sausage ‘N Egg McMuffin, two hash browns, and a large vanilla iced coffee. The hash browns could be a little dicey, especially if they arrive limp and under-cooked, or if holding them in a paper bag accidentally steam-bathes them into mush, but when they arrive at peak crunch, these little guys are straight crack. And if we’re exercising a modicum of health considerations in this depraved context, I don’t understand how someone could eat a McGriddle consistently—those things hit your heart like a mack truck.

For anyone who grew up in the pre-Supersize Me days, it is jarring to see this once family-friendly chain remove its pleasant facade and shamelessly present itself as a burger-churning assembly line—even if it’s always been that. My local McDonald’s has no cashiers and an iron-locked door, and a late-night grab-and-go window to barricade against the swarms of the unruly drunks and crackheads. The chairs are unbearably uncomfortable. Bathroom usage is conditional, “For Paying Customers Only,” and another sign in the common area dictates the orderly pace of dining processions: “30 minutes to eat food and after is considered loitering.” The layout is hostile, lifeless and depressing. No one is sitting down and everyone is impatiently standing idle to snatch their order and dart away. Every DoorDash order gets priority and then I wonder, Who the fuck DoorDashes McDonald’s? (Also me).

I had a fond memory of a high school morning waking up after a house party with a crush/love interest and we’d drive down Fast Food Row before deciding on McDonald’s. The lady ran towards the playplace and we goofed around in this magical realm of giant plastic tubes and slides and peed-on ball pits and rope netting. No one bothered us and we were the only ones there, lost in the moment for one uninterrupted hour. We realized it had been years since either of us had been in a McDonald’s playplace, and it would be the last time we’d ever be in one. We put our shoes on and ordered a McDonald’s breakfast to split between us. I don’t remember the cost, but two broke high schoolers could easily afford it. Maybe it’s for the best that the obesity factory is less friendly.

Now that I’m in my working stiff era, each morning is a dress rehearsal for my inevitable fall into eternal abyss. Every breakfast, I munch away, trying to fill the howling void inside, but each meal is consumed and eventually gone, reflecting my own sense of nothingness back to me. I drift closer to the precipice while distracting myself with an office job that doesn’t matter, a capitalist machine that makes me feel perpetually inadequate, and an inane ritual of picking out snazzy fits that project an aura of having my shit together.

The McDonald’s breakfast is the only thing that’s real, the only solid in a world where everything else liquifies into a simulacrum of someone else’s dreams. After four bites, the haze of my morning gloom disappears and I see only truth. The great pig who was used to make this delectable sausage patty was a proud animal and I wonder if she also was lovin’ it.

Existence is pain, but also, this is the only context in which it is acceptable to eat plastic cheese.

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Gratitude: Chillin' with the dog.

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